Our First Noel
by The Hmuff
Summary: COMPLETED! MERRY CHRISTMAS! Captain Haddock has recently moved into Marlinspike Hall, and has invited Tintin to spend Christmas with him. But what the Captain doesn't realise is that for Tintin, Christmas means memories he may not want to face. WARNING: supreme adorableness, angst and holiday spirit!
1. On the First Day of Christmas

**Our First Noël**

* * *

**Chapter One  
****_On the First Day of Christmas…_**

_December 13th_

The snow had just begun to fall. It drifted down, delicate feathers from a heavy grey sky, casting a soft, white blanket over the brown and bare world. It covered the dead grass, the withered leaves, reducing them to no more than an idle thought – a vague remembrance – once it was autumn; now it was Christmas. The wasted world was cleaned and refreshed, turned into something outside itself, like the way dreaming momentarily cleanses one of memory.

From the train window, the thick, fast rush of snowflakes had become a blue, shooting past the train windows, turning the world outside into a white haze. The forests inbetween Brussels and Moulinsart were reduced to a glimpse or two of tangled branches; the villages seemed nothing but a scattering of rooftops, and maybe a face or two, waiting outside the station.

Tintin sat on the train seat, his fingers pressed up against the cold window. He watched as his breath became visible in the form of a white cloud on the thick green glass, and idly dragged his fingertip in the fragile white haze, creating some sort of smiley face. He looked at it for a moment, and then wiped it away with his sleeve.

The train whistle blew; once, twice, and then the train began to slow.

"Moulinsart Station. Moulinsart Station," came the familiar drone of the conductor, walking slowly down the aisles.

Heart beating a little faster, Tintin bit his lip, stood up, and reached for his suitcase at his feet. He grunted, finally grappling it with both hands, and staggered out from his chair into the aisle. Snowy followed him, trotting along happily.

As the train slowed, he lurched forward and barely managed to right himself before he pitched into the arms of a rather cross-looking woman with a mutant poodle on her lap. Thanking his lucky stars, Tintin placed his hand firmly against the wall and waited for the train to slow all the way.

The snow seemed to be falling much more softly when the train finally stopped. The doors slid open; Tintin took a deep breath, made sure Snowy was at his side, and stepped towards them. A couple passengers who recognised his face, from the newspapers, no doubt, nodded kindly to him, perhaps murmured a "Merry Christmas!" But then the train stopped, and the whistle blew, and it was time to get off.

He was the only one departing at his station. Within a matter of moments, the whistle sounded again, and the familiar, powerful chugging of the train engine began. He watched it leave, the scratched-up green metal, slowly gaining speed as it went, faster and faster towards the far horizon.

The smell of tobacco and the sea suddenly flooded the air; Tintin had just time to drop his suitcase on the ground before an iron-hard hand clapped him forcefully on the back.

Coughing and gasping for breath, Tintin straightened up, wheeling around to shoot a glare in the Captain's direction.

"Why? Why did you do that?"

The man's grin was absolutely diabolical, but his face was glowing with jollity and light-heartedness; that alone made it hard to be angry at him. "You're a little fragile flower, aren't you?"

"Captain Haddock!"

Haddock waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, don't 'Captain Haddock' me. So, you made it, I see? Nobody tried to shoot you when you boarding?"

"Ah, well, I think I'm in one piece." Tintin held out his arms a little and looked himself over, as if to reassure himself he wasn't riddled with bullets. Satisfied, he nodded and said, "Nope; nobody tried to kill me. Or at least I was fine, until you hit me like that."

"Great. Can you handle that thing?" The Captain nodded down to the massive suitcase. Without waiting for an answer, he picked it up, grunting slightly. It hung from his hand heavily, looking like his arm was in danger of being stretched out of shape from the suitcase's weight. "Columbus. I didn't know you _had _this many clothes."

"Presents." He couldn't hide his grin.

"Ah, I see." Clapping his hand on Tintin's shoulder – much more gently this time – Haddock began to walk in the direction of the parking lot just outside the station. "Let's shove off, then?"

Tintin glanced surreptitiously behind as he and the Captain made their way to the car. The train was gone. It was final: Tintin was spending Christmas at Moulinsart.

/

It took only a half-hour to walk from the station to Moulinsart Hall, and it was a mere matter of minutes to drive the distance. For that, Tintin was thankful. The car was an absolute icebox. It had heating, of course, but the Captain had left his car off to go wait by the train – "Your train was half an hour late," he explained – and it took the old car a long time for the engine to be warmed up enough for the heating system to work. Tintin had tried to convince the Captain to get a new car, but the Captain wasn't fond of spending money that he didn't think needed to be spent. Obviously, the enormity of his own wealth hadn't quite hit him yet.

"So, what's up these days?" the Captain asked, glancing over to look at Tintin before returning his eyes to the snow-covered road. "Any more adventures? Not without me, I hope."

"No, nothing since Palestine."

"Which was without me."

Tintin didn't say anything.

"Not that I mind. Now. Just don't do it again."

"I'll keep you in mind next time the entire world is about to go to war," Tintin promised.

Haddock risked a quick mock glare at Tintin before focusing again on the road. "What? I wasn't even on your mind? The entire time you were over there?"

"Oh, I thought of you. Once or twice." Sounding thoughtful, he said, "If the Captain had been here, there is no way I would be getting out of here alive…"

"Ha ha. You're cute. I don't mind telling you, I couldn't sleep a wink for worrying. A fifteen year old boy, fighting criminals all by himself... you could've been dead, for all I knew..."

Tintin grinned a little, looking down at Snowy and running his fingers through his tangled fur. The dog whined quietly, reaching up to lick Tintin's face. "Well, it's not as if we're going to get into any trouble anytime soon. It's Christmas. I'm pretty sure God wouldn't allow Christmas to be ruined by something like that."

"Better pray you're right," said the Captain.

"Oh, I will. Don't worry."

/

It was 4 in the afternoon when they entered Moulinsart Hall. The snow had let up since when they left the train station, but tiny flakes still drifted down, joining the thick white blankets cresting the back of Moulinsart's steepled roofs—they pulled through the back, so Tintin wasn't able to see any more than that. The Captain had to do something in the garage, leaving Tintin to carry his suitcase up the front steps and into the wide double doors of the Hall. He had just opened up the garage door when he heard a voice behind him.

"Ah, Master Tintin. I see you've arrived."

Startled, Tintin turned around to see Nestor standing there, reaching out to take the suitcase.

"Hello, Nestor. How are you?"

"Just fine, sir. I trust your trip was pleasant?"

"Very."

Evidentially satisfied with the reply, Nestor nodded curtly. "Very good. Just follow me, sir; I'll be showing you to your room…"

Suitcase in one hand, Nestor reached out with the other and held the door open for Tintin to step through. Rubbing his arms, Tintin stepped across the old wooden threshold and into the world outside.

The last time that Tintin had seen the Hall, it had been two months ago, right when Tintin had gotten back from Palestine. The Hall had been a wreck then. And even before then, it had never been cleaned up, not properly, from the neglect it had seen from the years of occupation by the Bird Brothers. But now, somehow, it looked…well, beautiful.

Tintin's footsteps lagged as he stared at the tall, white building before him, cerulean rooftops blanketed in white, marble walls arching out of the pristine virgin snow. The doors and windows of the Hall were decorated with rich green garlands, with holly and ivy and pinecones, and all were covered in snow.

It wasn't just pretty. Neither was it just picturesque.

It was… well… perfect.

Nestor was far ahead of him now, almost at the front door, but Tintin didn't notice, let alone care.

"Like it?" the Captain asked. Tintin didn't turn, but he could hear the man coming from behind him, footsteps crunching in the new snow.

"Like it?" Tintin stared at the Hall for a moment longer, and broke out into a baffled, overwhelmed laugh. "I wouldn't have _dreamed_ about spending Christmas in a, in a place like this when I was little."

"Good." They were silent for a moment longer, until the Captain asked, "Ready to head up to the Hall, lad?"

The boy finally peeled his eyes away before shaking himself mentally and nodding to the Captain. "Of course."

The Captain began talking about something, but Tintin barely heard, or cared, what. Haddock's gruff, familiar voice simply faded out of Tintin's consciousness as he followed the man through the bedecked double doors, up the grand staircase, and to the upper floor of Marlinspike, Snowy plodding happily along beside.

Twelve days until Christmas, Tintin thought. And for the first time, he thought that maybe—just maybe— it wouldn't be as bad as he had thought it might be.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yay, new story. This means that Resurrection probably won't be updated for a while. Oh well. I will survive! (Starts singing the song) *cough cough* anywayyyy. Oh, and this is going to be updated daily until Christmas Day, for each of the 12 days of Christmas (yeah, I know the twelve days are supposed to be _after _Christmas, but who cares anyway?). Or perhaps I'll post two on Christmas Eve; I'm not sure how my mum feels about me going on the computer on Christmas. We'll see.

Guess what? I _don't _own Tintin or Moulinsart! Because if I did, that Unicorn movie would have never been made. (Just kidding. Well, I'm not kidding, but that's a discussion for a different day.)

So, how's the story so far? Good start? Bad start? Let me know right down *there*


	2. Sugar and Spice

**Chapter Two  
_Sugar and Spice_**

_December 14th_

Captain Haddock was well and truly confused.

He had thought that Tintin would be pleased to spend Christmas at Moulinsart. He had certainly _sounded _excited, over the phone. And he'd been enchanted enough by the beauty of the Hall (not that Haddock could take credit for that, but it was nice all the same.) But Tintin just seemed to be… dare he say… almost moody. Though it _was_ hard to tell with Tintin sometimes; you would think he was being reticent because he was simply having bad day, and it would turn out he wasn't talking because he was hatching a plan to drag down a master criminal and concentrating furiously. It didn't help that the lad hardly opened up to him, which was downright aggravating; considering how often Haddock spilled his guts about himself, it would be nice to know a little about what the lad was feeling. Just once in a while. But no.

Dragging his fingers through his beard, Haddock struggled out of his bed sheets and slumped onto the floor, groaning with early-morning exhaustion.

Yes; sometimes it was _very _hard to tell with Tintin.

/

When Tintin opened his eyes, his first instinct was to panic. He was in a strange house. In a strange bed. Therefore, he had been kidnapped. Every instinct in his body told him so.

_No. Wait a second._

This room looked familiar. And familiar meant safe.

Tintin stood, stretched, and made his way to the windows next to his bed. They were tall and light streamed through them, filtering through the opulent curtains, bathing the room in a dazzling scarlet glow. Pulling the curtains aside, he studied the scene before him, squinting at the bright light. There were a lot of trees. A _lot _of trees. Tall, majestic trees, with a thick layer of snow over the branches. There was a little pathway, and if he stood at the far left side of the window, he could see a house down the path.

_The laboratory, _he remembered. _I'm at the Hall. Safe._

Sighing, Tintin slumped back down on the bed. He took another deep sigh, blinking sleepily as he stared blankly at the carpeting. His mind seemed to be trapped in a drowsy muddle, and he was waiting for it to wake up.

After a moment, he gave up. It was 8:30 – he had already slept in too long. "Mmmblh… Snowy… come on, boy…"

Snowy lazily opened an eye, regarded him solemnly, and then yawned and got to his feet, stretching and kicking off his blanket. He trotted briskly behind Tintin as the boy made his way to the bathroom.

Pausing as he squirted toothpaste onto his toothbrush, Tintin stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, at his puffy eyes, at his hair, sticking every which way. He looked exhausted. He _felt_ exhausted. But he _was _in a much better mood than he was yesterday. Yesterday he had been downright pessimistic. Not without cause, but he was feeling much better today, and was happy for it. Maybe this wouldn't be such a horrible holiday after all.

Tintin went through his morning agenda: take Snowy out to pee, come back in and have a cup of coffee, read the newspaper, and then— _Great snakes! What is that _smell?

_/_

The smell of baking cookies was probably the best smell on the planet. At least, Tintin thought so. So did Snowy, apparently; Tintin was holding him in his arms to keep the terrier from leaping onto a chair and gobbling up the rows of soft, warm, holiday-themed cookies lying on the kitchen table.

Oh crumbs, he wanted one.

His fingers moved without permission in the direction of a sheet of freshly-baked treats, there was a cookie right there that was so warm it almost fell apart when he grabbed it—

"Gotcha!"

A tan, leathery hand snaked out from behind Tintin, gripping his wrist with such force that the cookie fell from his fingers. It didn't touch the floor, though. Less than halfway through its descent, the other hand reached down and snatched it out of mid-air.

Tintin yelped, "Crumbs!"

"Crumbs? Not yet," replied Haddock, stepping in front of Tintin and grinning cheekily. He took a big bite of the mitten-shaped cookie, sending a scattering of said crumbs to the floor. "_That's_ crumbs," he said, mumbling through a mouth full of cookie.

Tintin's gaze flew around the kitchen, searching for any item with which to get vengeance. His hands closed around a bowl of what looked like blue paint. _Aha!_

He flashed the Captain his best winning smile, as his fingers closed around the smooth surface of the bowl. "And that's blue blistering barnacles!" he shouted, quickly sploshing the thick liquid into the Captain's face before he had any time to react.

There was a long pause. Haddock slowly reached up and, with a cookie-filled fist, rubbed the blue away from his eyes.

He didn't mean to, but Tintin started snorting with laughter.

"It suits you!" he chortled, inbetween gasps for breath. "It matches your eyes! It really—"

His sentence was cut short when a wave of bright red crashed over his vision. It was blinding. He could see nothing, smell nothing. It was just red, cold liquid, dripping down his face and onto his white—_white—_pyjamas.

From somewhere in front of him, the Captain snickered.

"Matches your hair."

"My hai— no it does _not!_" He immediately regretted speaking. His entire mouth was instantly filled with the red paint. "Eugghhh! I got paint in my mou—" _Wait. This tastes sweet._

"Is this… icing?" the Captain asked, as if he had been reading Tintin's mind.

"Um." He paused, licking his lips. "Yes. Yes it is."

There was a long pause, and then he heard—he still couldn't see— Nestor's voice coming from the doorway.

"Er." The usually articulate butler sounded at a complete loss for words. "Ah."

"What is it, Nestor?" Tintin heard Haddock ask.

There was an even longer silence, in which Nestor was probably debating what he could say that would be respectful, but still get his employer out of his kitchen.

"I hope I didn't intrude," he finally said, annoyance almost imperceptible in his cool tone.

"Not a bit," the Captain replied meekly. "Tintin and I were just going."

Tintin wiped away icing from his eyes so he could figure out where Nestor was. Once he saw the butler—even though the man seemed in a sort of red haze— he apologised, making sure to lay it on thick, and then accompanied the Captain out of the kitchen and into the foyer.

They stood there for a few moments, not exactly sure what to say. Then Haddock started sniggering.

"I don't think we're getting any cookies from Nestor this year, Tintin," he said.

* * *

**Author's Note: **...and everything nice! :D

I spent basically all evening yesterday decorating cookies, and a bunch of friends (I think like 20, lol) are coming over for a cookie baking/decorating/eating party Saturday, so I was just in the mood to write about cookies.


	3. Hark! The Ancient Mariner Sings!

**Chapter Three  
_Hark! The Ancient Mariner Sings!_**

_December 15th_

"Ding dong merrily on high… in heaven the bells are ringing! Ding dong merrily, the sky is filled with angels singing!"

"Oh, come _on!" _Haddock mumbled, flipping over in bed and burying his head beneath his pillow. It did nothing to block out the warbling strains drifting from outside his bedroom window.

A steady rapping noise came from the door downstairs, and the Captain could hear a sickeningly familiar voice shouting out, "Happy Christmas! Open up, you old sea-dog!"

The Captain refused to get out of bed. He simply refused. After a moment, he heard the sound of someone walking down the steps, accompanied with the soft clicking of Snowy's paws on the marble. A couple moments passed, and then the door swung open.

"Well, well, well! Happy Christmas!" Wagg roared. "The wife and I were just passing by the old Hall, carolling with the fam, and we thought, 'Hey,' we thought, 'Let's drop in and see how the old Captain Nemo is doing!'"

Tintin said something that the Captain couldn't hear. All he could hear was Wagg's subsequent roar of laughter.

"Ha ha ha! Bah humbug as usual, the old Scrooge! A proper caution, he is! Well, go awaken the kraken, will you? And then you two come carolling with us! We're having a grand old time!"

Tintin's voice became a bit louder all of a sudden, as barely-concealed panic broke through his usually calm demeanour. "Oh, er, no thank you… you see, we've already planned to go later today…"

"No, no, no, I insist!" Wagg laughed. "It'll be a—"

The Captain's heart lifted as he heard Tintin's reply—"But we'll make sure to pass by your place when we go. No thank you, Mr Wagg. See you later, Mr Wagg! Joyeux Noël, Mr Wagg! Happy Christmas!"

The door closed.

_I didn't know Tintin was _capable _of that, _thought Haddock. He chuckled gleefully into his pillow. _Looks like I'm finally rubbing off on him._

He listened gleefully as the sound of the carollers finally drifted away, until it was gone altogether. _We're safe. I'm safe. Thank you sweet Mary! We don't have to go carolling!_

There was the sound of footsteps approaching his door, and he sat up in bed, blinking blearily at the door. The handle twisted; Tintin entered, Snowy yapping excitedly at his heels.

"Good morning, Captain!" he sang, making his way to the curtains and pulling them open. Blinding light flooded the room. "It's a bright, beautiful day outside!"

"No! Blistering barnacles, you're not my personal weatherman!" The Captain dove back down into the sheets, putting the pillow back over his head. "Let me go back to sleep!"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"I don't know! Do I look like a clock?"

Snowy leapt onto the Captain's bed and snuffled around in the sheets until he found Haddock's face. When he began licking, the Captain snarled and flopped another pillow on top of his head, trying to ward the dog away.

"Ugh! No! Snowy, that's disgusting! I don't wantto know where your tongue has been!"

"I can't imagine why you would," Tintin remarked, his voice perfectly serious.

"Do something, you thundering smart-aleck! Your dog is—"

"Here, boy. Over here."

Whining softly, Snowy gave the Captain final wet, sloppy kiss and jumped off the bed, into Tintin's arms.

"Good boy!" Tintin scratched the dog's head fondly, and then leaned over, giving the Captain a little pat on the shoulder. "Well, Captain, don't sleep in too long," he advised. "You're going to have to get ready for tonight."

"Tonight?" Haddock rocketed straight up, squinting at Tintin. "What's tonight?"

"We're going carolling. Didn't you hear me tell Wagg?"

/

Carolling was certainly not one of the most rewarding Christmas activities, but everybody had suggested that the Captain go along with it anyway. Did it involve food? No. Did it involve games? No. Did it involve anything besides cold fingers and raw throats? No. But even Nestor had said that Haddock should go; and when one's butler felt so strongly about something that he would be that bold, the master should probably consider the butler's advice. Especially a butler as well-educated as Nestor (who else spent all his time reading Blaise Pastel, or whatever his name was? Certainly not Haddock!).

Yes, the Captain thought; it was probably the fact that Nestor had advised it that had been the final straw.

"Which songs are we going to sing?" Tintin asked, breaking into Haddock's thoughts.

"Er… I don't know. Which ones are your favourites?"

He put a finger to his chin, thinking for a long moment. "Huh. Well, I've always been partial to 'Ah! Quel grand mystère!'"

Haddock blinked. "What?"

"You know. Ah! Quel grand mystère!" he sang softly. "Dieu se fait enfant, il descend sur terre—"

"N—nevermind; I don't know it. Any others?"

"Um… do you know 'Aujourd'hui le Roi des Cieux?'"

Haddock was silent for a long moment, trying to wrap his mind around the long stream of sounds that had just poured from Tintin's mouth.

"Aujoor ley rah what?" he finally asked.

"Okay. Nevermind. Just… let's… okay, what did _you_ grow up singing?"

"Ah now, let me think… well, the 'Sussex Carol' has always been a favourite."

"Sussex? Haven't heard of it."

"How 'bout 'On Christmas Night?'"

Tintin shook his head.

"The Holly and the Ivy?"

"Why do you sing about plants?"

"I don't know. It's probably pagan or something. Druidic." He paused for a second. Why _did _they sing about plants? "Uh, come to think of it… well, nevermind. So, er, do you know 'Good King Wenceslas?'"

The boy's eyes lit up with recognition. "I've heard of that one. How does it go?"

The Captain was silent for a long moment, debating whether or not to embarrass himself by singing aloud, or to simply tell the lyrics to Tintin and hoped he recognised it. He finally decided on the latter. "Uh, okay. It goes, 'Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen, when the—"

"The feast of _Stephen?" _Tintin interrupted. "How is that a Christmas song?"

The Captain frowned. He'd never thought of that before. "They… talk about snow," he said lamely.

"Ah," said Tintin. Somehow, he managed to send a very long message through that one'Ah'_; _it was an English-Christmas-carols-are-pathetic-and-French-ones-are-better sort of 'Ah.' Immediately defensive, the Captain wracked his brains for a good, traditional British Christmas song. Which one was his favourite?

"'The Wassail song,'" he finally said. "Come on. Don't tell me you haven't heard of the _Wassail _Song. You can't have Christmas without the Wassail Song."

"How does that one go?"

"You know! Wassail, Wassail, all over the town, our toast it is white and our ale it is brown…"

"Oh nooooo…" Tintin moaned quietly.

"And with a wassailing bowl, we'll drink to… hey, what's burning you up?"

"Does it really have to be about _drinking?" _He sounded exasperated.

"Cheeky sod. What do you take me for? A drunkard?"

Tintin gave a significant glance at the cup of whisky in the Captain's hand, but otherwise was wisely silent. He had once tried to break the Captain's alcoholism and failed miserably. Tintin was more or less assured that the man had it (mostly) under control, though; after burning their lifeboat, crashing a plane over the Sahara desert, and almost falling into a yawning canyon in the Andes, the Captain had learned the dangers of drinking first-hand. That would have to be good enough. Only one man, Tintin had decided, was capable of breaking the addiction: the Captain himself. If Haddock didn't stop his addiction, nobody would, because Tintin had pretty much surrendered on the alcoholism front.

"Er. Okay." Haddock followed Tintin's gaze to the glass in his hand. He stared at it for a long moment, and then placed it gingerly on the table. "So… what other songs? Do you know We Wish You A Merry Christmas?"

"Isn't that the one about piggy pudding, or something?"

"Ha ha! No. It's _figgy _pudding."

"Ah," Tintin said again.

Ignoring Tintin, Haddock explained, "It goes, 'We all want some figgy pudding, we all want some figgy pudding, we all want some figgy pudding…'"

Tintin dropped his head into his hands.

/

With Nestor's help, Tintin and the Captain had been able to compile a list of songs they both enjoyed and more importantly, knew. Unfortunately for Tintin, every one of these were in English. But he decided not to complain. After all, he had learned a lot from the experience: Englishmen were fiercely stubborn about their traditions, no matter how stupid, and that pretty much all traditional British carols had been written by drunks.

It was 4 pm by the time they'd finally gotten out of the Hall and into the village. Calculus had joined them, and so had Nestor. It seemed rude to leave the butler out, considering how much he had helped them pick out the songs, and besides; two people carolling would be just strange (two, as they didn't count Calculus; the man was along just for the walk, as he had no idea when they were supposed to be singing and when they weren't.)

Everybody was very polite, as was to be expected, but to the Captain's chagrin, they weren't offered anything but kindly smiles (and the occasional door in their faces; but Tintin was a reporter, so that didn't faze him.) No food at all— until they made their very last stop.

As promised, they wound up at Wagg's place (_Hark! the ancient mariner sings! _Wagg had roared, when he saw them). And when Wagg ushered them all inside— there it was. Sweet liquor of life, cradled in a shimmering crystal bowl, the delicious, ice-cold sherbet just floating tantalisingly on top. The Captain's heart lifted. He wasn't sure if the Hallelujah chorus had come on the radio, or if he could honestly hear a heavenly chorus. It only took a sip to see that it had been made just as Haddock liked it, with buckets—_buckets—_of vodka.

It was Christmas Punch.

It may have been the one rewarding thing about carolling, but it was worth all the trouble.

_Even if I have to be in this barbecued blister's house to drink it, _Haddock thought, but it didn't sour the mood.

He and Tintin of them were standing beneath a tacky garland by the punch bowl, listening amusedly to Wagg roaring with laughter as he told jokes to Calculus and Nestor; jokes that Calculus didn't hear and that Nestor was too reserved to laugh at. _It's a good thing that Wagg finds himself so funny, _Haddock thought; _otherwise, he'd be offended. Not that I'd mind._ In fact, it might have been kind of funny.

"Imagine," Tintin mused, "if Signora Castafiore was joining us carolling." Tintin, naturally, had declined any of the punch; Haddock, naturally, was on his fifth glass.

The man frowned and was silent for a moment, fully digesting the thought before breaking out into appalled laughter. "We wouldn't be able to hear ourselves."

"Which would be a shame. You have a nice voice. Too bad I've—" Tintin was interrupted by the sound of Wagg bursting out into laughter. They turned, watching the man for a second, and then Tintin looked back at the Captain and grinned charmingly. "Too bad I've never heard it before," he finished.

"Uh, thanks, lad, but I think you have." The Captain frowned again and paused for a moment, taking a sip of the spiked punch as he tried to drag up the details. "When we were in the wine cellar. In Khemed, remember? Lemme think… yeah, we were both drunk, and—"

"From the fumes," Tintin cut in swiftly. "Pure accident."

"Yes, yes, yes, from the fumes. And I was singing. Don't remember what. And… actually, so were you. Oh yeah, remember?" He swung his hands like a man conducting an orchestra. "Ta-ra-ra! Boom-de-ay! For tonight we'll—"

"Captain, we're in somebody else's house," Tintin hissed, his eyes wide with horror.

"Coming from you! You were the one who told me to go carolling!"

Tintin looked like he wanted to argue with that, but couldn't; instead, he just said, "There's no point arguing about it, anyway. I don't remember that at all. You were probably just hallucina—"

"You don't remember?" He leaned forward a little, narrowing his eyes. "Not at _allllll_?"

Tintin shuffled from one foot to the other, moistening his lips uncomfortably. "Uh… no, not at all. And frankly, Captain, I don't find this very funny," he added, noting the Captain's barely concealed smirk.

"All right, all right, all right. So you didn't sing." The Captain stared sullenly at the ground for a moment, kicking a sprig of holly that had somehow fallen to the floor. Then, a mischievous glint appeared in his eye. "Hey, but what about when you were in San Theodoros? I remember reading about how you drank all that aguardiente, when they tried to—"

"Look at their Christmas tree! Crumbs! It's so…er… green…" cut in Tintin, speedily changing the subject.

Sighing and rolling his eyes a little, Haddock shoved his hands in his pockets and shut up, letting Tintin ramble about the decorations in a desperate attempt to redirect the conversation. But as they said goodbye to Wagg and continued their walk, through the village and back to the Hall, the Captain couldn't resist humming, "For tonight we'll merry merry be, for tonight we'll merry merry be…"

Tintin's uncomfortable expression and subsequent silence were more rewarding than a bathtub of Christmas punch.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm going to go singing at a local nursing home today (no, they're not serving punch), so this seemed appropriate. :D Hope y'all enjoyed! And does anybody else think that a ton of Christmas songs are just somewhat... well,_ stupid _isn't the right word, but it's definitely close.

By the way, people have asked about the timeline here. This story takes place right after The Land of Black Gold; Tintin and the Captain are good friends here, just not post-Tintin in Tibet friends :D

If this chapter was better than a bathtub of Christmas punch, leave a **review! **(Lol, that was lame...)


	4. Dashing Through the Snow

**Chapter Four  
_Dashing Through the Snow_**

_December 16th_

Winter wouldn't be winter without sledding.

That was a simple, unarguable fact. Somebody try and tell Captain Haddock differently, and there would be a fist where their head was supposed to be. Who said he was too old for sledding? There were few things in life that Haddock was too old for. Sledding was definitely not one of them.

The problem was, who to go with?

Oh, Tintin was the obvious answer, but that didn't solve the problem; you couldn't go sledding with just one person. Not tobogganing, anyway. That woodlouse Wagg would agree to come, of course, but heaven forbid _he _joined them. If anything could ruin Christmas, it would be Wagg.

It was awful, really. Especially because the Captain had just found a toboggan in the cellar. The thing was an antique, probably a hundred years old, but it looked perfectly operational and was perfectly tempting.

Haddock wanted to go sledding.

He wasn't facing the front door—he was in the breakfast room, though the door to the foyer was open— so when the doorbell rang and Nestor opened it up, he couldn't see who was coming in. But the sound of two sets of footsteps, all but in sync, was answer enough.

"Good morning, Nestor," he heard a clipped British voice say.

"Good morning, Captain," came an almost identical voice.

Haddock was about to return their greetings with an all-too-characteristic snarl. But at the last second, a thought occurred to him. It was a sneaky thought, true, but that didn't make it any less viable.

"Good morning, old friends!" he called, getting to his feet and walking up to the Thompson twins. "What fair breeze blows you here?"

Thomson took a moment to sweep a dusting of snow from the brim of his bowler hat. "Well…er… it's like this… Interpol sent us with information regarding the recent—"

"Grand, grand." Putting a hand on Thomson's back, he began to walk in the direction of the parlour, ushering them in. "You have to tell me all about it later. Come in, have a drink."

The twins exchanged confused glances, but weren't duly concerned. "Why—why thank you, old man. Very, er, snowy weather we've been having lately, isn't it?"

"Oh yes. Er, tell me, Thompson—"

"Er, that's Thomson without a 'P.' As in snorkel."

"Oh." The Captain stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to do, and then shook himself mentally. "Yes, Tho_mson. _So, er… have you ever been sledding?"

/

"Faster!" Tintin screamed. "Go faster!"

The Captain tried to respond, but between the wind hitting him smack in the face, and his hysterical laughter, speech was practically impossible. Behind Tintin sat the two Thompsons, clutching on to each other for dear life, their eyes as wide as dinner plates, looking for all the world like skiers watching an avalanche roaring towards them.

The four of them were crammed onto a toboggan, flying down the side of what was probably the biggest hill within 50 km. Trees whizzed by, speed reducing them to scraggly blurs. Wind and snow blasted in their faces, as cold and hard as ice.

And it was exhilarating.

Snowy barked, clambering over Tintin's lap. He was poking his head out from behind Haddock's back, facing the wind, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"Turn!" Tintin squealed through his laughter, his voice painfully shrill in Haddock's ear.

"Whoooo_oops_!"

Eyeing the rock in the centre of the path, Haddock gripped the wheel with gloved hands and forced the toboggan into a right-angle turn it had probably never been designed to do. One of the Thompsons let out a very un-manly screech.

"Wahoo!" Haddock screamed. The sound quickly dissolved into snorts of laughter.

"Captain! Tree!" Tintin squeaked.

"What tree?" the Captain wheezed, risking a backward glance at Tintin, suddenly aware of something like panic in Tintin's voice.

His gloved hand shot out, pointing. "That one!"

Time seemed to slow. The Captain felt a sinking feeling in his gut as he turned and saw the massive pine, previously unnoticed, standing straight in the middle of his path. Getting larger and larger.

"Abandon ship!" he roared, letting go of the wheel and jumping straight up out of his seat. His gut lurched, and then he felt his foot make contact with something hard and round. Like a walking stick. Snowy began howling. The Captain was vaguely aware of the two Thompsons pitching out of their seats, and realised that Tintin had taken hold of his leg. There was a hair-rising moment where they were all hovering in mid-air, and then they collapsed all on top of each other, a giant tangle of coats, dog, and bowler hats, as the sled erupted into a glorious firework of bright red splinters against the giant pine.

/

"That. Was. _Brilliant._"

The Captain shook his head dog-like, scattering any remaining drops of melted snow off his hair and beard. Tintin curled up protectively around his cup of cocoa, shielding the mug from the flying water. Their faces were still rosy from the wintery adventure; their eyes still sparkling with excitement remembered.

"It was," Tintin admitted. He blew softly on his cocoa before taking a careful sip. "Sledding's fun. Good fun."

"And the Thompsons! Their faces!"

"Inviting them was downright cruel, you know, Captain." His tone was reproachful, but he grinned as he said it; the Captain knew that he wasn't being serious. At least, he wasn't _upset_; whether or not he was being serious was a little hard to tell. But it was often hard to tell with Tintin.

"Yes… well, hopefully they'll be out of the hospital soon."

There was a more or less sober moment where they were silent and thought about that, and then Haddock broke in jauntily, "We should really do it more often."

"Oui; we should."

"We'd need a new sled, of course…"

"How long had you had that one?"

"How long have—what, that thing?" The Captain stared at Tintin for a moment, and then snorted. "That sled was probably two hundred years old."

"So you got it when you were, what, six or seven?" Tintin asked, his face the picture of innocence.

"Cheeky little sod." The Captain made his way to the arm-chair next to the sofa where Tintin was reclining. He fell into it with a soft grunt, eyeing his coffee mug to make sure nothing spilled. "I had a sled when I was seven," he added, cocking his head thoughtfully. "I remember the day I got it. It was a couple weeks after my birthday… I couldn't wait to try it out. Not as if we get a whole lot of snow in England, but, you know, it turned out to be a white winter. I spent a lot of time on the hills, just going up and down… up and down…"

There was a long, awkward silence, where the Captain snapped back to reality, suddenly aware of the dreamy quality his voice and eyes had adopted. Tintin was looking at him bemusedly.

"It sounds like you had fun," he said, the corners of his lips curling into a supressed smile.

"Ah, well." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That was, er, forever ago." Trying to ignore his burning cheeks, the Captain waved his hand dismissively. "Uh, so…"_ Change the subject, Archie. _"So did, uh, you do anything… like that? You know. Go sledding with your family or anything?

"Me?"

Haddock snorted. "No, Snowy."

Snowy's ears pricked up at the mention of his name, but after a moment, realising that nobody was offering him any food, he let his head droop again.

Tintin stared down blankly into his cup of hot cocoa, as if he would find the answer in the creamy chocolate. "Er… why do you ask?"

"Just wondering." He was relieved at how casual he made been able to make his tone sound. Because, truth was, Haddock _wasn't _just wondering. He really, _really _wanted to know.

"Oh, I don't know. Not that I have any memory of." He took a long sip of his cocoa, carefully avoiding the Captain's eyes.

Haddock stared at Tintin disbelievingly. "Not that you remember?"

Tintin shook his head.

"But – blistering barnacles, you don't just _forget_ about that sort of thing." A small, inner voice was telling Haddock to stop now, to look at how upset Tintin was getting, to backpedal while he still could, but he ignored it completely. "You mean to say you have no childhood memories of sledding? What, your, your parents didn't ever take you? Was there no snow or something? Where were you even raised?"

"I never went sledding."

"But that's just weird. I mean, everybody goes sledding."

"I said, I _never went sledding."_

Tintin had an expressive face. He had to, because without it, he didn't look scary, tough, sexy, scholarly, anything; just like a rather pleasant twelve-year-old. But Tintin could change his expression in a heartbeat. He rarely did it on the Captain, but when he did, it made Haddock remember that this pleasant, twelve-year-old boy fought crime. And was good at it. And could be absolutely frightening. The transformation now from slightly confused, to upset, to downright chilling, made Haddock's blood run cold.

"But... but why?"

Tintin's voice was cold. Devoid of emotion except for reticence and quiet, hidden anger. "I never. Celebrated. Christmas."

Snowy noticed his master's change of mood and growled softly, not sure who he was growling at, but experience made him well aware that there was somebody who needed to back off, or else.

The Captain was beginning to become aware of this, too. He was shaken, but annoyance was mounting inside of him, too, angry words bubbling and boiling in his skull like water inside a scalding-hot kettle, at any moment about to be let loose in an hour-long rant. What had he done? He was just trying to be friendly, maybe he got carried away, but thundering typhoons, that was no reason to—

_Is he angry at me, or his parents?_

That thought seemed to change everything.

Haddock suddenly felt rather as if he were wilting.

He still wanted to be angry at him. It was one of those emotions that he resorted to whenever he was confused or overwhelmed, since he understood anger well. But he couldn't be. His heart twisted a little, and he just felt…

"I'm sorry," he said, quietly.

"It's okay," Tintin replied, and he seemed to deflate. He didn't look like a crime-fighting hero anymore. He just looked young. Young and tired. "It's been a long day," he said quietly. "I… I think I'm going to go up to my room."

"Alright then."

Tintin didn't respond. He reached down to scoop up Snowy, and walked slowly towards the door, each step hesitant, as if he thought he was maybe leaving something behind. But he didn't stop. He stood in the doorway for a moment, just a heartbeat, and then shut the door.

"I'm sorry," Haddock whispered, when the door had closed and Tintin was well out of hearing. "I just wanted to know."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Poor Tintin… *sniff* What on earth happened to him?

Dang it, I wish there was snow here… I want to go sledding… but a review would make up for the fact that it's so depressing around here. In fact, it would make my day! :D


	5. Captain Got Run Over By a Reindeer

**Chapter Five  
****_Captain Got Run Over By a Reindeer_**

_December 17__th_

_Forgive and forget._

Wasn't that what everybody had always told him?

But Tintin doubted even they knew how hard it could be.

They hadn't understood—not at all. But they thought they did, and they couldn't get _why_ he wouldn't just 'forgive and forget.'

_Why are you still angry? Why can't you just move on? Why can't you forget?_

But you couldn't just forget what eight years had done to you. And you couldn't just forgive it either.

They didn't understand that, and it had been a gap that spread wider and wider between them until Tintin wondered he had any friends at all.

Except the Captain.

And that wasn't a road Tintin was going to go down with him. He didn't want to hear 'forgive and forget,' not again, not from the mouth of somebody who'd risked his life to save him, and vice versa, innumerable times.

And Tintin wasn't ever, ever going to tell him what it was that he was never going to forgive, nor forget. Because he couldn't. And he didn't want the Captain to know.

He could never, ever know.

/

The sun was just peeking up from behind the rooftop of Moulinsart—a faint red glow promising sunrise—when Tintin stepped out of the front doors. He made his way to the garage, boots crunching on the slightly red snow as he trudged to the door and opened it wide.

Inside was the Captain's car. But a little behind the car, covered in a big, blue tarp, was an old bike. The Captain had found it when he was taking his car in for repairs, after doctored petrol cause its engine to blow up. The bike was an officer's bike from the War, old, beat up, and barely functional, so he got it for only 9 francs. He then got it fixed up for half that. It was a sort of pet project, nothing more, as the Captain didn't have the faintest idea how to drive a motor scooter. Tintin most certainly did. He mounted the bike and twisted the key in the ignition; it spluttered a couple times and released a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, but then came to life with a roar. He sat there for just a second longer, feeling the soft rumble beneath his fingertips, and then pulled out of the garage and onto the road.

As the cold wind ran through his hair, and the frozen landscape opened up before him, I looked around, taking in the world surrounding— the rolling hills, the swollen creeks, the church steeples poking out from the black skeletons of trees, the muddy roads leading through the old village. For a while, he drove with no particular destination in mind, but eventually he saw, in the far distance, the dark grey silhouettes that constituted Brussels. He rolled through the city, past the tall, beautiful buildings, over the uneven cobblestone slick with melted snow, hearing the bustle of the flea market and the sound of people's laughter echoing through the puddled streets. He dismounted the bike and began to walk in the direction of the market.

The Unicorn Market. That's what the Captain called it. It was a fitting name, really; Tintin had been shopping there for years, but never bought anything quite as life-changing as the model of _La Licorne. _Until then, he'd only really bought books. And lots of them. He'd always loved reading, but it wasn't until his search for the Arumbayan fetish with the broken ear, that he'd realised what a vital resource books could be.

He thought back to then. That had been early last year, almost two full years ago. He hadn't known the Captain then. He'd done his adventuring all alone. And was it better that way? Tintin couldn't say. At times he liked having someone being concerned about him, but at other times— well, it was just that… Tintin didn't _want _a father; he used to have one, and that hadn't turned out well at all. And he was worried that the Captain saw him as more than a friend; occasionally, he felt like the Captain saw him as his son. And that was the very last thing Tintin ever, ever wanted: to be part of a family again. When you put that many people that close to one another, nothing good could ever come out of it. Everybody just ended up fighting, and from Tintin's experience, it was always the fathers that came out on top. And Tintin wasn't about to be trampled into submission again.

Besides, he just didn't want the Captain to get hurt. Whenever they got into any of their so-called 'adventures,' which had happened five too many times (Khemed, the Arctic, Peru, Palestine, and of course the Unicorn affair) he had this crushing fear that something would happen and the Captain would try and die to save him. The Captain was a good man; he drank too much, but he was a good man, and Tintin didn't feel like he was worth Haddock's, or anyone's life.

Hands crossed behind his back, Tintin began to walk slowly through the market, surveying the crowds, the stands, the lights. After walking for ten minutes or so, he unintentionally drifted away from the markets and realised he was now in his part of the city. He walked down cobblestone roads, flanked by yellow stucco buildings and tall, dignified lampposts. He could still hear the bustle from the market—car horns blaring, glass chinking, dogs barking, people yelling—but it wasn't nearly so loud down the side streets. A horse-drawn carriage bedecked in garlands and golden bells jingled its way past him and down the street.

It was beautiful, he thought. Part of him wished he had invited the Captain.

_But I came here to get away from him._

Tintin wanted to stay friends with the Captain. And any more conversations similar to the one last night could mean the beginning of the end. So he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and buried his fear deep inside, somewhere where he wouldn't have to face it. Somewhere where he wouldn't have to fight it. Just the way it should be.

Now. It was time to get his mind off of that and do some shopping.

/

The markets were up and filled with as much junk as usual. That was what Tintin loved about Belgium; it abutted 7 countries, if you counted Great Britain and Ireland, and had colonies in the Congo, Rwanda, Burundi and Tientsin; so many different cultures met here. There was something so fascinating about so much culture being crammed into such a tiny country. A lot of Europeans called Belgium boring and backwards. Backwards; maybe he could agree with them on that. But boring? They'd have to be blind.

The markets were so crowded that the word 'crowded' seemed like an understatement. But Tintin truly couldn't think of any other word to describe it. A handful of carollers clustered on the corner sang out Christmas tunes—_French carols just make more sense than British carols, _Tintin thought—and it was gently snowing. The store fronts were decked in garlands and lights, and Christmas wreathes were on every door and lamppost. Tintin really wanted to buy something, and he passed stand after stand of books, but trouble was, every time he pulled out a book that looked interesting, he remembered that he already owned it and put it back, sighing a little. He found some cute-looking ornaments. He even found a tiny _La Licorne _ornament, which he was fairly sure was made because of him. The tiny ship was a beauty, but something seemed kind of vain about him buying it, so it put it back, sighing again and shoving his hands in his pockets.

_It would be more fun if the Captain were here, _he thought.

He began drifting towards Marché aux Poissons square, where they had a Ferris Wheel, an ice-shaking rink, and rides with real malamutes. Tintin had no intention of going on the wheel, rink, or going for a malamute ride, but he thought it would be fun to watch. Since there was just about nothing he wanted here, he might as well.

There were malamute rides, but not just that—there were reindeer rides, too. Now _that _looked kind of fun. Tintin had ridden horses, camels, and llamas, but he couldn't remember any time he had ridden a reindeer. Not that he was lacking in the experience department, but it would still be cool. He was debating whether or not sitting on a horned pony for two minutes would really be worth his credibility, when he heard a roar from behind him and jumped.

"_Out of the way!_"

He turned around just in time to see a reindeer running, hooves pounding on the cobblestone road, charging straight towards him—

Yelping, Tintin dove out of the way, hitting the sidewalks as he fell backwards and slammed into the cobblestones. He just barely got a glimpse of the man's face; a red moustache, a black Captain's hat—

_Captain Chester?_

But he didn't think too hard about it. His brain was too confused to try to make any sense of it, he was cold, he'd just been chased by a reindeer—a reindeer!— and his tailbone was _throbbing._

"Yeeeoww!"

It took a second for Tintin's brain to compute that that was Captain Haddock who was yelling.

"Great snakes! Captain!" Struggling into a standing position, Tintin stumbled forward, gripping the fence of the ice-skating rink for support.

A crowd had gathered—crowd being a relative term, as the entire market was like Grand Central Station—around the bodies of two men and a reindeer, prone on the ground. Hand over his mouth in horror, Tintin struggled through the mass of humanity around him and made his way to the tiny opening.

"Captain!" he burst out, getting to his knees and reaching out to his friend. "Captain! Are you alright?"

The Captain was face down on the ground, completely prone, not even moving. Across from him, Chester was on his hands and knees, heaving for breath. The reindeer looked even more pathetic, with all four hooves waving in the air, a string of bells drooped rather sadly over one ear, and was making pained grunting noises.

"Captain! Captain, are you—"

"Antediluvian bulldozer!" Haddock roared, through a mouthful of gravel and snow; if Tintin hadn't been expecting the familiar curse, he would have had never guessed what the man was saying. "Miserable barbecued blundering—"

Clenching his jaw, Tintin grabbed the Captain by the shoulder and began hauling him upwards. After a moment, they both went flying, landing on their backs on the cobblestones.

"Great," Tintin muttered, slowly easing himself into a sitting position. He rubbed his rear ruefully, wincing. "Like my tailbone wasn't crushed already."

"Figdy!" Haddock was shouting. "Fidgy! Fidgy!"

_Snakes, not this again._

"Boodle!" Chester roared, attempting to pat his head and rub his belly at the same time. It didn't work. "Boodle—"

"Captain Chester, what a surprise!" Tintin broke in cheerfully, surreptitiously glaring at the Captain before returning Chester's snubbed expression with a winning smile. "I had no idea that you were in Brussels!"

"Oh…er…" Chester rubbed his eyes and blinked, still trying to process the fact that Tintin had just cut into a decade-old ritual. "Well, I was on my way back from Vlissingen… going to Cornwall. For Christmas, of course. Thought I'd just, er, drop by… see how me old shipmate's gettin' along." He tried to adopt a chummy, enthusiastic expression, but he was still clearly winded.

The Captain was muttering to himself as he struggled upwards, grabbing his back in pain, but managed to force a smile. "Grand of you to come, mate. I got your phone call saying you were in town and rushed over here. It's been years, hasn't it?"

"Aye, too long. So, this where you live?" Chester gestured to the city of Brussels. "I know you said that you lived in a Hall."

"In… in Brussels?"

"Yeah."

"In Brussels," repeated the Captain.

"Well, I actually didn't believe a word of it," said Chester sheepishly. "I thought to myself, Chester, there's no way your friend Haddock would go livin' in some _Hall…"_

"Oh. Oh, mate." Slapping Chester on the back, he began sauntering forward in the direction of his car, chuckling to himself. "You just come along, my friend…"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Poor Chester! He doesn't know what's coming!

If you liked this chapter, don't forget to review! It would make me so happy! :D


	6. Have Yourself a Multicultural Christmas

**Chapter Six  
****_Have Yourself a Multicultural Christmas _**

_December 18__th_

"No! No! Please no! Not _American _Christmas music!" Tintin moaned, dashing to the radio.

"In the lane, snow is glistening…" the Captain was crooning from the breakfast table. "A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight…"

Tintin's hand hovered for a moment over the _off _button, but then he paused, turning to stare at the Captain. "Wait, how do you even know this song? I've never even heard it before."

"Then you don't listen to the radio, laddie," Chester commented, not looking up from buttering his toast.

"They're playing it everywhere," Haddock supplied. "It's a huge hit. Just came out."

"Maintenant, nous pouvons tous chanter des chants de Noël sans Dieu de _l'Amérique_," Tintin muttered, shaking his head desparingly. "C'est merveilleux… _merveilleux_…"1

The Captain knew a little French. Just enough to realise that Tintin was complaining about something, and being very sarcastic. "What was that?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing…"

"Avez-vous été se plaindre?"2 the Captain pressed. He knew his accent was horrible, and he'd probably spoken in the wrong tense or something technical like that, but he liked responding to Tintin in French whenever the lad reverted like this. Besides being kind of fun, it was probably a power thing; he wanted Tintin to know that he, Haddock, knew French, and that he understood (almost) every word that the boy had just said.

Tintin "Moi? Plaindre? Vous plaisantez!"3

"Was that even… was that _English_?_" _Chester broke in, frowning.

They stared at Chester for a full ten seconds before realising that Chester wasn't used to French being thrown around like that.

"Uh… he was just complaining," Haddock explained, jabbing his thumb in Tintin's direction.

"Hmm," said Chester, looking unconvinced. "I see." But after a short pause, he shrugged nonchalantly and seemed to forget all about it. "So, er…"

"So what?" the Captain asked, standing up and moving his empty cup of tea to the sink. Tintin, previously lounging against the window, stepped forward and picked up the pot.

"All done with the tea, Captain?"

"Yep," said Captain Haddock.

"Aye," said Captain Chester.

Tintin looked between the two of them.

"I guess I'll clear it away, then," he finally said, aware that to clarify which Captain he had meant would possibly offend one of them. He would just have to be more careful in the future.

As Tintin placed the teapot in the sink, he could hear strains of the Captains' conversation from the breakfast room: "So, what's on the agenda for today?" Chester was asking.

"I don't know, what do you feel like doing?"

"Er… I noticed you didn't have a gingerbread house up."

"What? You suggesting that we decorate one?" Haddock burst out into laughter. "I haven't done that since I was a wee laddie!"

_Wee laddie? _Tintin thought, frowning.

"True…" Chester began, but the Captain cut him off.

"No, no, no, I fancy the idea, I really do, I really do," he replied quickly, laughing softly. Then he stood, and roared, "_Nestor!_"

"Coming, sir," the butler called from upstairs.

Tintin entered the breakfast room just in time to see Haddock clapping Chester on the shoulder, his shoulders still shaking with mirth. "Oh, Chester, m'boy, this is going to be grand…"

/

"Captain?" Tintin asked. "Can you please go tell Nestor we need more confectioner's sugar?"

Two chairs screeched backward as Chester and Haddock stood up. They looked at each other for a moment.

"I'll go," Chester finally said.

"'s awfully good of you," Haddock replied, sitting back down at the table.

Tintin dumped the last of the bag of powdered sugar into the mixing bowl, pulled a fork out of the drawer, and began stirring.

"Reminds me of… when was that? Four days ago?"

"You mean us with the bowls of icing?"

"Yep."

"I don't think I'm ever going to be able to eat another cookie without thinking—" the Captain began talking in a squeaky high voice— "'Crumbs, Captain!' Ha! Good times, good times."

Tintin shot a mock glare in Haddock's direction as he squeezed a couple drops of green food colouring into the bowl of icing. "I didn't say it like that. I was— _Crumbs!"_

"I know, that's just how I said it."

"No, I mean, crumbs, look at this!" Dropping the fork on the countertop, Tintin stared in horror at the bowl of icing. "This is… this is like…"

"That's like Castafiore Emerald green," the Captain finished hollowly.

They looked at each other for a moment, completely appalled, and then burst out laughing.

"We'll just, uh… paint bushes on the side of the gingerbread house?" Tintin said hopefully.

"Aye, that we will," the Captain chortled, wiping away a tear. After a moment, he settled back into the chair with a big sigh, still softly chuckling. "Ah, laddie… that was great…"

_Laddie? _Tintin's frown was even deeper this time. _Where is this coming from?_

"Did I miss the party?" Chester asked jokingly, coming into the room with a bag of powdered sugar.

"Not a bit," Haddock chortled. "Come on! Let's get this started!"

/

Decorating a gingerbread house was easy.

Right?

At least, it was supposed to be. In fact, Tintin, Chester and Haddock were so certain that it was supposed to be easy that they immediately felt like freaks of nature when they began attempting to decorate the fragrant little brown house in front of them.

And furthermore, they couldn't even begin to decide what it should look like—which probably contributed to the problem quite a bit.

"Right," Tintin said finally. "I take the front and left side, Captain Chester takes the back and right side, and Captain Haddock takes the roof."

"Why does Haddock get the roof?" Chester objected, looking up from the pile of candy decorations to glare at Tintin.

"Because—because—okay, _you_ take the roof."

"I didn't say I wanted the roof," Chester pointed out.

"_What?_"

"I'll take the roof, thank you," Haddock said quickly. "Chester, do what Tintin says. He has good ideas."

Chester regarded Tintin with new interest. "Really? Oh, aye! I remember that little trick with the fuel oil, back in… where was it? Oh yes, Greenland, of course."

"Akureyri," Tintin clarified. "We were on our way to Greenland."

"Aye, Akuru—er, Akurirey, yes, that was it," Chester said dismissively. "Uh… oh! Haddock, I just remembered: you didn't drink then, did you? Ah!" He slapped his palm down on the table, making Snowy jump. "You were the president of the S.S.S.!"

Glancing down at the bottle of Loch Lomond on the table, Tintin could barely hide his grin.

"Oh… well, that," Haddock said vaguely, his gaze following Tintin's. "Yes, well… er… I sort of, uh, resigned…"

"Resigned?" Tintin asked mischievously.

"Er… well, there was this… er…" He carefully took a sip of whisky and frowned, sighing heavily as he set the cup down. "Well, there was a lot of fuss and bother, and I was more or less kicked off the, er… well, no reason to dwell on the past!"

Chester nodded solemnly. "Aye, not when there's the future to be lookin' to."

"Especially when one's future involves gingerbread houses. Do we have icing?"

"Coming, Captain," Tintin said meekly, shaking his head and laughing softly as he made his way to the kitchen.

/

_What a mess, _Tintin thought despairingly.

To be fair, Haddock and Chester were very…er, _creative _artists. Tintin had to admit he wouldn't have thought of putting a runway on the roof for Santa's reindeer. Considering Haddock wasn't too into art, the detail he'd put into it was amazing— there were even yellow sprinkle lights and tiny red cinnamon beacons. Chester's side looked like something out of a Robert Louis Stevenson story. Tintin's side was the only one that looked traditional at all, though he had to admit he had been thinking of Russia when he'd been making it, so it definitely had a Eastern European/Asian feel. It was a good thing his other friends hadn't come, he thought, and just imagined what that would have been like: Chang's side would be a traditional Chinese home, Alcazar's would be some barracks, and Castafiore's side would be—well, Tintin couldn't even imagine that, nor did he want to, but he was pretty sure it would involve chandeliers, marble, and nude statues of gods and goddesses.

"No, Snowy," Tintin said, grabbing his dog by the waist and lifting him off of the table. "No licking the icing!" Snowy whimpered, but allowed himself to be carried off. Tintin knelt down, looking at the dog's muzzle. The entire thing was streaked with red and green. "Oh, Snowy…"

But something he saw made him forget all about Snowy and icing.

Captain Haddock had written "CRUMBS" on Tintin's side of the gingerbread house.

"No!" Tintin gasped. "When did he even _do _that?"

He'd written it with icing, so it would be fairly easy to scrape off, but that didn't change the fact:

"Captain, I'll get you for this!"

Chester and Haddock were both gone upstairs. Tintin listened for the Captain to reply, but there was only a long, confused silence.

"Get me for _what?" _Chester finally shouted.

Tintin rolled his eyes. "The _other _Captain!" Feeling as if his threat had just lost a lot of it's potency, he called up, "Where's Captain Haddock?"

"Right here, laddie," Haddock said, stepping in from the back door. His face was flushed with the cold, and he looked a little wind-swept. "Just saying hello to Cuthb… what's the matter with you?"

Tintin had meant to chastise the Captain for writing on his gingerbread house. His mouth opened to tell him the words. But instead, what came out was, "You never call me 'laddie.'"

"Don't I?" he asked carelessly. Pulling off his scarf and flinging it on the countertop, he took a step closer to the gingerbread house, squinting a little to look at it. "Aye, this is quite a beaut', that's for sure…"

"_Captain!_" Tintin stamped his foot in frustration.

"_What?!"_ Chester shouted from upstairs.

"I don't. Mean. YOU!"

"What's burning _you _up?" Captain Haddock asked, pausing to frown at Tintin as he lit his pipe.

"Well said!" Chester called.

"Why are you talking like that?" After a moment, he remembered his other complaint: "And why did you write 'Crumbs' on my side of the gingerbread house?"

"Because it's funny!" Haddock chortled.

"It's funny to talk like you just got off a boat from Scotland?" Tintin asked, now completely baffled.

"No, no, the house. And I don't talk like that! Look, laddie—"

"_Lad. _I mean _Tintin!"_

"Okay, okay, I'll just call you 'Tintin' from now on. Does that make you happy?"

Tintin paused to think. "Okay, that's fine."

"Okay. But look, I'm English. I know we go back in forth in French and all, and I'm probably losing my accent or whatever—"

"You never _had _an accent," Tintin scoffed.

"I mean a British accent."

There was an awkward silence.

"Oh."

The Captain finally rested his pipe on the table and turned to face Tintin, giving the lad his full attention. "But speaking in French, that doesn't change who I am, or where I come from. You use weird French and Flemish slang all the time, heck, your _name _is Flemish slang. I'm not asking you to change that."

"Yeah, I know…" Tintin mentally attempted to formulate the words he needed to say. That is, he knew what he wanted to say, but he had absolutely no idea how to say it.

_I don't want to lose you._

Would it really be that hard to say? _Yes, _said a forlorn voice inside of him. _Because it's weird. And he wouldn't even know what you meant._

"Everything all right?"

"I'm fine," Tintin replied. "I need to take Snowy for a walk."

/

Taking Snowy for a walk ended up equalling Tintin resting against the side of the house while Snowy scampered over the lawn, licking up snow and barking like a mad dog when it started melting on his tongue. It was funny to watch, except Tintin wasn't in a laughing mood. Idly twisting a piece of straw beneath his fingertips, he kept his eyes on Snowy but let his mind wander.

He seriously wanted to tell the Captain why he was getting stressed. There were more reasons than one. He went through the list mentally. _I'm upset because you're talking like Chester and I don't want you to change. I'm upset because I think you're trying to be my father and I don't want our relationship to change. I'm upset because this is the first Christmas I've spent with anybody other than Snowy and it makes me remember back then. And I don't want that to happen._

So how was he supposed to tell the Captain this again?

_Ah, hang it, _he thought, tossing the piece of straw aside. _There's no way I could tell him that._

Besides, trying to tell the Captain why, exactly, he didn't want the man to be his father, or why he didn't want to celebrate Christmas with a family, would mean questions. Questions about his past that he just couldn't and wouldn't answer. And having those between them… their friendship would only go downhill from there. And that was the last thing Tintin ever, ever wanted to happen.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Lol, I tried singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," only with the name of this chapter's title. It didn't work, but my brother thought it was pretty funny, so I guess it was a win :D I diehard wanted to do this chapter about singing, since I'm performing Handel's Messiah at an opera house today with like 10000 other people. Yeah, I'm just cool like that.

Oh, by the way, in case you're like, "You put Chester in the story but you're not doing anything with him!" just wait, okay? He'll become more important later, in chapter…uh… eight, I think. BUT I WON'T POST IT UNTIL YOU GIVE ME A REVIEW! BWAHAHA!

Just kidding. Lol! But I do like reviews. Think about how much you like reviews and then double that. That's how much I like them.

**Translations:**

1 Now everybody can sing godless Christmas songs from _America. _That's wonderful… _wonderful_…

2 Were you complaining?

3 Me? Complain? You're joking!


	7. The Nightmare Before Christmas

** Chapter Seven  
****_The Nightmare Before Christmas_**

_December 19__th_

Nestor was gone for the day.

And therefore, there was no food.

Anywhere.

Tintin, on the grounds that he was a detective and therefore more clever and resourceful, had been called upon by Haddock to find out what they would have for dinner. Tintin had pulled out a handful of cookbooks and was now searching them for clues.

Haddock's brain was reeling with clues itself.

Tintin's good temper had been so touch-and-go over the past seven days, and he couldn't, just _couldn't _understand why. It had never been like this before between them—well, maybe when they first met and were running around in Khemed, Tintin hadn't been the happiest camper in the world, but their lives _had _been in danger then, so it was more or less excusable. This wasn't excusable. It wasn't even explainable. He just didn't get it.

He was aware that Chester was talking to him, something about boats (naturally), but he wasn't even paying attention. He was staring blankly at Chester's face as his mind wandered, going over every base, trying to figure out what was going on with Tintin.

The Captain finally stopped talking to Chester and turned around. "Tintin, is everything okay?"

"Me?" Tintin asked, glancing up.

"Yes you. You've seemed a bit… I don't know. Distracted lately."

Chester frowned. "What? Is somethin' wrong, Tintin laddie?"

"Oh, no, nothing's wrong… it's just… I don't know." Tintin paused momentarily, casting about for the right words. "I've… I guess I've sort of spent Christmas by just myself for… well, I mean, quite a long time."

Haddock was impressed. That had been easy. "Blistering barnacles, so have I. But that doesn't mean—"

"Oh, no, of course not, old friend." He smiled innocently up at the Captain. "I know. I'm looking forward to it. I'm sorry; I'm being a bit stupid, is all. I think I might be coming down with something."

"Oh. Yes, of course." Haddock frowned a little, aware that Tintin was rarely stupid or ill; and if he was, odds were, he wouldn't be that honest about it. But he wasn't going to press it; not now, at any rate. "By the way, I'm going to the village later today. Fancy coming with?"

"Maybe. Is Chester coming?"

"Uh, I don't know." Haddock looked at Chester pointedly. "_Is_ Chester coming?"

"No, he's got to go to the harbour," Chester replied.

"Yeah, he's got work to do," said the Captain. "Come on! You and me. It'll be grand."

"Er… maybe." It _did _sound like fun. Maybe he should go… but on the other hand, he really just felt like being alone. "I think I'll stay here."

"Well, you rest and think about it." The Captain saluted to Tintin with his pipe. "Don't want you getting sick for Christmas."

Tintin gave him a slight grin and shook his head. "Definitely not."

"Sleep well, lad."

"Goodnight."

/

"Anyway," Tintin continued, shoving his hands in the pockets and staring down at the snow-covered ground, "it's not like my life's in danger _that _much. I mean… well, yeah, every _now _and then…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You lead a perfectly normal life," said the Captain, chuckling quietly and shaking his head in despair. "Just keep on telling yourself that, lad."

Tintin pulled a mock grimace at the Captain, but couldn't hold it for long and ended up grinning at himself. He turned and looked up at the clouds, watching as tiny white feathers drifted down from the iron-grey heavens, settling gently on pine garlands on lampposts, on faded store canopies, on top hats and black umbrellas.

"Hey, wake up," the Captain said. "We're on a busy street."

"To your left!" somebody behind them shouted.

His grin widening, Tintin neatly sidestepped out of the way of a passing bicyclist. "Sorry, just daydreaming."

"S'alright," he replied. He looked up, searching the stores, and then he paused, staring at a particular building. "Say, there's the tobacconist. I won't be a minute…"

Tintin waved dismissively. "Of course, of course; go right on ahead."

He watched Haddock leave; drawing a deep breath, he looked up and around at the village around them. It was so beautiful in winter, he thought. The crowds, the lights, the decorations…

At his feet, Snowy began to bark.

"What's the matter, Snowy old boy?" He bent down and picked up the furry white dog, scratching him behind the ears soothingly. "What's the matter, eh?"

"Tintin!"

Frowning a little, Tintin turned to see the Captain running towards him, his eyes wide with—with what? Shock? He couldn't tell.

"Didn't have your favourite brand?" Tintin called out, grinning.

Haddock didn't say anything, just ran towards him, faster and faster, dodging cars and shoppers. Arms outstretched, he took a powerful step and plunged himself into the air, throwing himself at Tintin.

Time seemed to stop. Tintin watched as the Captain got closer as if through slow-motion. He felt the thud of the Captain's body against his own, and watched as the sidewalk got bigger. There was a faint _thwupping _sound over his head, but he barely heard it. He held out his hands to protect himself, but the Captain's weight was too much, and he slammed against the sidewalk.

It was then—only then—that he realised that the sound he had heard was gunfire.

His heart stopped, but he realised almost immediately that he hadn't been shot. The Captain had saved him. Tintin would have collapsed with relief, but he was on the ground anyway. He lay there, trying to catch his breath, but the Captain was a big man; sandwiched between him and the pavement, it was hard for compressed lungs to draw breath.

"Thanks, old friend," he called. "I think you can get up now."

No reply.

"People will talk," he added, almost teasingly.

Silence.

Frowning, Tintin slowly crawled up until his upper half was supported by his elbows on the pavement. There was a second—just a moment—longer of patient waiting. And then realisation struck.

"Captain?"

Adrenaline fuelled his movements as he struggled out from underneath his friend, pushing the older man off with a strength born of panic.

"_Captain!"_

He saw the blood now. The crimson wetness, running from the four holes in the Captain's back.

"Oh no. Oh God, God please, no."

Gripping the Captain's shoulders, he shook him, shouting his name, but Haddock didn't respond.

"Captain! Captain, wake up! Don't— don't—_Captain!"_

Heart pounding, Tintin glanced up at the direction from where the shots had come. He didn't see anybody at first, nobody he recognised.

But then he saw him.

That face. The one he had seen practically every day of his life for almost eight sickening years.

But he forced his mind away. That wasn't important now. Diving to his knees, Tintin straddled the Captain. He placed his hands on the centre of the Captain's chest and gave a push. His body was immediately splattered with sticky warmth, but he barely felt it; he just pushed again. And again. He only had time to scream Haddock's name once more before he clamped his mouth over the Captain's blood-covered lips, pushing, forcing life into the shattered lungs. The man's body wasn't spurting blood anymore, and somehow that was the scariest thing of all. _Don't think about that! _And now it was back to compressions; a few beats passed as he pushed up, pushed down, let up…

"Please, please, please… Captain, no…"

Tintin stared at the Captain's glazed ice-blue eyes, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. Tintin could feel his mind shutting down, trying to prolong his disbelief for as long as possible. He felt no fear, sadness, pain, only a kind of sick, quiet desperation that there was nothing he could do. His breathing was laboured; his entire body was trembling; desperation gripped him as he move harder, faster. He could feel ribs cracking beneath his frantic thrusts, could see blood trickling out from inbetween cold lips.

It was impossible. He couldn't—he couldn't be—

No. No. Please. _No._

"Help! Call an ambulance, somebody! Please!"

Nobody even saw. They just kept on walking. As if the two of them weren't even there.

"Please!"

The pain and devastation suddenly came now, rushing down on top of Tintin like a tidal wave. He felt wetness on his face now. Was it tears or blood? He couldn't tell. "Captain, no…" he sobbed, feebly pushing down on his chest, trying to get the man's heart to restart, secretly knowing that it wouldn't ever start again. "Don't do this to me…"

He pressed his lips to the Captain's once more, trying to push air into him. One last time. But there was no use.

"No…" he choked, burying his face in the Captain's chest, his body curling up against the Captain's as his entire being was racked in sobs. "Oh God, no, please…"

_"Captain!" _Tintin screamed.

He shot up in bed, his hands tight fists on the sheets, his heart pounding.

"_Tintin!_" The door slammed open, the wood cracking as it came in contact with the wall, and Haddock burst into the room, his eyes wild with panic, his hands firmly clasped around a pike; he must've grabbed it from one of the suits of armour by the stairs. "Where is…" But his voice trailed off when he realized that nobody was attempting to murder Tintin. "What in the name of heaven is going on?"

Swallowing hard, Tintin forced his body to relax. "It was just a nightmare." But his heart was still pounding, his breath coming fast and wild.

The Captain's body sagged with relief. "A _nightmare?"_

"Somebody was shooting at me, and…"

The Captain stared at him, disbelief evident in his eyes. "What? But… but you must dream about that all the time! Tintin, you're bloody _shaking, what happened?_"

"No, no, nothing, it… it was just different this time. I…" He struggled to find the right words—to explain the sheer horror of the dream without revealing what exactly had happened inside of it. "I guess I just wasn't expecting it."

"Ha… guess so." Shrugging his hands into his pockets, the Captain blew out a long breath. "So… you're _sure_ you're okay, then?"

"Please…I'm fine."

"Good." He half turned, about to leave the room, when he paused, glancing back at Tintin, as if to reassure himself the lad really was all right. "You're sure you're—_Blistering barnacles!_ Tintin, what's wrong?"

"I said it was just a dream," Tintin replied, thoroughly confused.

"No, you're, you're…" Gesturing vaguely, Haddock swallowed, obviously hesitant to speak his mind. His fingertips drifted up to his face as he said, "You look like you were…"

Tintin mirrored the Captain's movement and realised that his face was completely wet with tears.

"I'm okay," he said quietly, reaching up and quickly swiping his sleeve beneath his eyes. "I'm fine, really."

There was a long pause. The Captain finally came over towards him and sat down, resting on the edge of the bed. "Tintin, you want to talk about it?"

He didn't sound curious, like Tintin might have expected. No; he sounded like he genuinely cared.

Wetting his lips, Tintin closed his eyes and took a deep, shivering breath. "I—"

_"Wha' in the bloody blazes is goin' on?!"_

They both jumped, turning to look towards the door. Chester suddenly appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily, his hair all rumpled and his eyes blazing.

"What is it? I heard you calling for me and—"

"No, no, everything's alright," the Captain cut in, not looking at his friend. His eyes were still trained worriedly on Tintin. "It's… it's nothing."

"_Nothin'_? That was a bloody big row you made for _nothin'_."

"I'm fine," Tintin said quietly. He suddenly felt as if his personal space was being invaded, and he really wanted these two men out of his room. "Don't worry about me, Captain."

"You're sure?" the two Captains asked, at the exact same time.

_They're like the Thompsons, _thought Tintin. "_Oui._ Yes. Completely."

"Well… alright then," said Haddock, turning around to leave the room. Chester trailed awkwardly behind.

Tintin sat there, staring at the wall in front of him for a moment, going over the events of his dream. A few beats passed, and then he made up his mind.

"Captain?" he called.

"Aye, laddie?" Chester called back.

"Captain _Archibald Haddock_?"

There was a pause.

"Oh, er, me?" Haddock poked his head around the corner. "What's up?"

"I, er…" He fidgeted uncomfortable, leaning over to scratch Snowy behind the ears. "I think I'll be coming to the village with you after all."

"Really?"

He looked so genuinely pleased, it made Tintin want to laugh. He managed not to, but he could feel a smile coming to his face anyway. "Well, why not?"

"Yes!" The Captain punched the air with his fist. "You agreed! When do you want to leave?"

"Sooner than later… but I don't care, whenever you want."

"Sooner is great." Leaning further from behind the doorframe, he winked at Tintin. "See you in the car, laddie."

"Great."

It didn't bother Tintin that Chester had responded to his shout for 'Captain.' It didn't even bother Tintin that he had just been called 'laddie.'

There were more important things to care about, after all.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Right after I finished writing this I realised it could have been an awesome oneshot... ahhh whatever. Hey, but now you can give me a review, just like if this really _had _been a oneshot! *hopeful smile*


	8. I Heard the Guns on Christmas Day

**Chapter Eight  
****_I Heard the Guns on Christmas Day_**

_December 20__th_

"Ready, aaaaaaaaaim!… _fire!"_

_Boom!_

"At ease!" Chester barked, his voice coming muffled from the other side of the window.

"Yes sir!" Haddock barked back, his louder voice coming a little less muffled.

Rolling his eyes, Tintin shook his head, but the corner of his lips twitched with… well, not exactly _amusement. _More with fondness for the Captain, and for how childish the 40-something man could be sometimes.

"Ready…aaaaaaaaaaim!… _fire!"_

_Boom!_

"Is somebody knocking at the door?" Calculus asked brightly, looking up from the newspaper.

Tintin began to say 'no,' then thought better of it and shook his head. That would get the 'no' message across faster. "The Captains are shooting. _Shooting, _Professor."

"Tubing? In the winter?"

_Boom!_

"It doesn't _sound_ like tubing," the Professor observed. His brow furrowed in suspicion. "Have it out, young man: what's really going on?"

Wisely choosing not to respond, Tintin folded his book shut, hopped lightly off the sofa, and walked up to the window, batting his book gently against his leg. He couldn't see the two Captains, but he _could _see the footsteps on the deep, crisp snow outside the parlour window, where they had walked as they'd made their way to the back. And of course he could hear them, along with Snowy's excited, almost frantic barks every time a gun went off.

_The English and their traditions, _Tintin thought, shaking his head again.

But he had to be fair: when they were planning their Christmas Day party, last evening in the village, Tintin had been pretty strict when it came to traditions himself. Of course Haddock wasn't thrilled about that; he called Belgian Christmases tacky, month-long festivals, celebrated via crowded markets featuring cheap decorations, truly horrendous gift items, and drunk people. Tintin called British Christmas nothing but an excuse for gluttonous consumption of meat, beer, and marzipan—and of course the yearly battle to outdo everybody else on how much money you wasted on Christmas cards. But words hadn't been heated, and eventually they'd compromised: Tintin would keep silent when his beloved Gaufres Liège would make way for flaming plum pudding; conversely, Glühwein would be served instead of Loch Lomond.

Though, the Captain really did get the better end of the deal, Tintin thought; he was having his own little Christmas party today. English style. Tintin had only agreed because, well, he'd never celebrated an English Christmas before. It was an experience he wouldn't mind trying. And besides, Chester had on the 24th, the day before Christmas, and even Tintin saw that would be downright rude to not have a mini Christmas celebration while the man was here—tacky British traditions and all.

Tintin realised that the gunfire had stopped, and relaxed back into the sofa, flipping the book back open. He wasn't really reading it, though; his brain refused to sit still.

The sound of taking and laughing slowly drifted closer and closer, until the front door slammed open. A burst of bitter cold wind accompanied the Captains' laughter and Snowy's barking as the three of them entered the foyer.

"Ahh, that was glorious."

"That it was!"

The heavy, booted footsteps drew nearer to the parlour, and after a moment, Haddock appeared next to Tintin, his face bright red from the cold, grinning at nothing in particular as he yanked off his scarf.

Tintin smiled politely, dog-earing the page and settling the book beside him before he glanced up. "Hello, Captain. How was your excursion?"

"Marvellous, thanks." He bit down on the very tip of his glove, grinning wolfishly as he ripped the glove off his hand. "Should've come, you know."

"Ah, but I don't think I'd have enjoyed myself quite as much as you did. I'm not English, you remember," he replied, eying the rifle beneath Haddock's arm with mild unease.

"Doesn't have anything to do with being English, it's just something my old shipmate and I used to do. You still could have had fun," Haddock pointed out.

"Eh, I doubt it. Guns are for killing. I don't get overly excited over the thought of firing them; I have to do it enough." Though the words by themselves called for a sarcastic tone of voice, Tintin's voice and expression were very docile and pleasant. He wasn't upset, far from it—but all the same, he just didn't get the thrill of firing off weapons.

"Well…" The Captain looked slightly amused. "When you put it like that…"

"Exactly," Tintin said brightly. "Now, if you two are ready, I think we should go help Nestor get ready for the party."

/

"And then they all came, charging down the hill, gun raised, bullets flying," continued Haddock, one hand raised solemnly, the other curled tightly around a bottle of Loch Lomond, "I swear on…on…everything, there was at least, oh, threescore."

"Where was this again, Captain?" Tintin asked, his frown deepening.

Haddock didn't seem to hear. "Aye, but we fought 'em off, bloody swine… tha' was a night to…_hic…_remember."

"Aye, sure you did," said Chester graciously. "Bet it was a pretty sight, too."

"That it was, mate, that it was…Right!" He tried to clap his hands together, but his palms seemed to miss. He tried again, and managed to get it this time. "Let's get

In his peripheral vision, Tintin suddenly saw what looked like a bushy red caterpillar, a little above his head. Jumping slightly, he flew around to see Captain Chester, standing right next to him.

"Oh, hi," he said, grinning nervously.

"Say, laddie… you think there's somethin' wrong with Haddock?" Chester asked Tintin quietly.

Tintin laughed. "Yeah, and I know what it is, too. Starts with a 'D'."

"No, no, no. I mean, how in the bleedin' blazes does he get drunk after only five glasses of whisky?"

Tintin was debating between giving Chester a sarcastic reply, or responding with a polite 'I'm not sure' and acting like the answer wasn't obvious, when what Chester was trying to say suddenly dawned on him. Frowning slightly, he paused to consider the question. He knew _he _was pretty much a goner after one glass, but the Captain drank whisky with every meal.

_Why on earth _does_ he get drunk?_

"I have no idea," Tintin said finally.

"Don't make sense, does it?" Chester asked, watching Haddock stagger around the kitchen.

"Yeah…huh."

"Don't make sense," Chester repeated, shaking his head and going over to help his friend walk in a straight line.

/

"Oh oh oh _ohhh!" _Chester and Haddock roared, getting to their feet as the giant, flaming black pudding made its entrance into the dimmed dining room.

"Just you look a' that!"

"Nestor, my man, you have outdone yourself!"

"I hope not, sir," Nestor replied, making Tintin have to put his hand over his mouth to hide his laughter.

The blue-tinged flames didn't lick at the pudding for much longer; after a short moment, they died out, and soon Nestor was dishing out plates and serving the pudding.

"Five star brandy?" the Captain asked cautiously, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth.

"Of course, sir," responded Nestor primly.

"Grand." He took a bite.

Tintin stared at his pudding in a bit of dismay, but gingerly gave it a taste. He frowned, smacking his lips a couple times to try and gauge the flavour. It wasn't terrible… exactly. But he wasn't looking forward to eating this _again _on Christmas day.

"So, Captain—"

"Aye?" Chester interrupted.

"What?" Haddock asked.

"Uh… what do both of you say to a game of bridge?" Tintin asked, trying to keep his frustration out of his voice.

Haddock began to respond, but Chester cut him off immediately. "Bridge? Pfffffff!"

"Oh?" Tintin asked, now entirely failing to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Tipping his chair back, Chester placed his crossed feet on the table, toasted Tintin with a glass of brandy, and downed it in one gulp. "Ahhhhh!" he roared, slapping his chest. "That's the stuff to put hair on your chest!"

Tintin kept a polite smile on his face and thought, _I'm never going to drink._

"Now… now laddie," Chester said, leaning forward and shaking his finger in Tintin's general direction, "we do things different back home in Britain."

"Uh, yes. I know."

"I'll be right on back…" Tipping his head to Haddock, Chester stumbled out of his chair and staggered out of the room.

Tintin glanced at Haddock; the man was still feeding himself plum pudding. Truth be told, he felt rather caught in the middle of all this British celebration; like an awkward third-wheel. He really should have spent the day in Brussels.

_SCREEECH!_

"Sacrebleu!" Tintin yelped, shooting almost straight out of his chair. "What the—"

"Yes!" Haddock howled, getting to his feet. "Tha' makes my blood run warm inside me! That brings me alive, mate!"

"Holy—Captain what _is it?" _Tintin choked, his hands clasped tightly over his ears.

The Captain didn't answer, just bowled over his chair and dashed out of the dining room.

Gingerly pulling his chair aside, Tintin stepped around the Captain's fallen chair and into the foyer.

_Oh no, _he thought witheringly. _I had enough of this in Kiltoch. _

Behind him, in the dining room, the clock struck 12 o'clock.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yeah, I ended it like that because I want the next chapter to be a continuation of here. Is that cheap? Sorry. But it was too long to cram into one chapter.

Think you know what Tintin had enough of in Kiltoch? ;) Let me know right *below*


	9. Welcome the Piper

**Chapter Nine  
****_Welcome the Piper_**

_December 21__st_

A bagpipe.

It was a _bagpipe._

And not only was Chester holding a giant, misshapen bag with tubes sticking out of the top, and not only was that bag making the most hideous screeching, but Chester was wearing a kilt. An honest-to-goodness kilt.

Tintin knew that he had looked…okay…in kilts, when he'd worn one back in Kiltoch... but Chester?

And now the Haddock was swinging his arms back and forth and _singing _to the bagpipe: "The wren, the wren, the king of all birds, on St. Stephen's day was caught in the furze!"

"What's a furze?" Tintin asked, struggling to make himself heard over the din of Haddock's whooping and the screeching coming from Chester's instrument.

"It's a bush," Chester explained, taking his lips off the mouthpiece for one blessed moment before clamping them back down again.

"Oh," said Tintin, like he understood.

"Come on, mate!" Haddock shouted, running back to the dining room. Chester followed, his face slowly getting red from playing the hulking instrument. Tintin trailed behind, unsure of what was going on.

When he entered the dining room, the Captain was standing on the table, a bottle of Loch Lomond in one hand, a glass in the other. After a moment, though, he forgot the glass and took a swig from the bottle.

"Tar suas anseo ar an tábla, maité!" Haddock shouted. "Ba mhaith liom damhsa!"1

"You're multilingual?" gasped Tintin.

Haddock didn't respond. Gripping Chester's hand, he shoved a second bottle of Loch Lomond into Chester's hand and began singing: "Wassail, wassail, all over the town! Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown!"

_So this is what the Captain wanted, _Tintin thought. _This was the English Christmas he was talking about._

"With a wassailing bowl—" the Captain threw his head back and guzzled down half the bottle of whisky— "We'll drink to ye!"

Unsurprisingly, the Captains didn't notice when Tintin quietly left the room. Even Snowy, chewing on fallen pieces of meat and lapping up spilt whisky, didn't notice.

_Am I the only person here who isn't enjoying myself?_

Pulling on his coat, Tintin yanked open the front door and stepped outside.

When the door closed behind him, he could still hear the sound of the bagpipes, but it was quieter—much quieter. He walked through the snow for a long time, taking deep breaths of the winter air around him.

"Tintin!" he heard a shout, from behind him. He didn't turn around. He just stood there.

It was only a matter of minutes before the Captain found him.

"Tintin, what are you doing out here?" the Captain panted, a hand on his gut as he struggled to catch his breath.

"I never knew you spoke Gaelic," Tintin said quietly.

"What? That's why you came…?"

Tintin didn't say anything.

"Uh… I don't. It was something I remember my mates saying, way back," the Captain admitted. "I'd actually forgotten all about it, but they say drink loosens lips…" He smiled as he said it, letting Tintin know it was a joke.

Tintin didn't laugh.

The Captain swallowed, aware that wherever they were going with this conversation, they were going south, and fast. "Whatever made you run out here like that?" he asked, quickly trying to change the subject.

"I wanted some air."

"There's air inside," Haddock pointed out.

"Yeah, but it's too British," Tintin sighed.

"You could've gotten hurt."

"Coming from the man dancing on tables." There was an awkward pause, and then Tintin added, "And really; nobody's going to just pop over the hedge and shoot me."

"You don't know that."

"I can take care of myself," he replied nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders like he didn't really care.

"Well, you shouldn't."

Tintin blinked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're only fifteen, Tintin. You shouldn't be able to escape from kidnappers like that. You shouldn't be a deadeye when it comes to shooting people."

He laughed tiredly. "Well, half of it is luck. Or divine intervention. Call it what you will. God and I are pretty close." He said it jokingly, but when he looked up to see Haddock's reaction, the man's expression seemed…almost pained.

"Well, you should be. Considering all the times you've almost met him." His voice was strangely tight.

Frowning, Tintin turned to give Haddock his full attention, accepting this wasn't going to be a casual conversation. "What's wrong, Captain?" he asked quietly.

"Tintin, I wanted you to spend Christmas at Moulinsart because I thought it would be a nice change for you. I wanted you to be happy."

" 'Wanted?' Has anything changed?"

"Yeah: I know now there's no reason to want it. Not when it's so obviously not going to happen."

"Oh, do I look unhappy?" Raising his arms at his sides, Tintin cast a searching glance over himself. "Do I look starved to you? I mean, honestly, Captain, I want to know. Really. Am I wasting away? Have I been threatening to kill myself?"

"Well, no…" Haddock admitted.

"Have I been cutting?"

"Not that I know of, no. But—I mean—I mean, it's more subtle than _that._ I mean, you're _Tintin! _I couldn't even imagine you—"

" 'Tintin?' " Clenching his jaw, Tintin straightened up to his full height, staring at the Captain. Haddock couldn't tell if the boy's grey eyes were burning with anger, pain, or shock; perhaps all three. "You think that... that..." After a moment, he shook his head, putting his fingertips to his forehead. "Captain, do you want to know what 'Tintin' is?"he asked, finally looking up at the Captain. "'Tintin' is a _lie. '_Tintin' is no more real than if he came straight from a story book. 'Tintin' is the dream of a stupid, eight year old boy who was sick, and tired, and deluded, and who thought that by putting on a mask he could make all the problems of his life and all the problems inside of him disappear, but you know what? It's nothing but a mask. A stupid, lying _mask. _I'm hurt, I'm angry, there are a billion things I'd do anything to forget, and if you think for one second that pretending to be 'Tintin' is a mitigating factor in all of this, you don't know anything…" But his voice trailed off as he realised he was rambling, and he looked away, unable to meet Haddock in the eye.

"Then there's your answer," the Captain said quietly. "You're killing yourself inside."

There was a long pause, and then the Captain raised his hands pleadingly. He spoke, and his tone was begging and strained. "Just let me help, lad. I've known something's wrong ever since you came here, a whole week ago. Just… look, what's wrong? Are you…angry at me?" He raised his hands up even higher, with a slight air of hopelessness. "Was it something I did?"

_No, _Tintin thought. _You've done nothing wrong. You've been like a father to me, and that's the one thing I just can't handle. _

"I can take care of myself," he repeated quietly. It was the only thing he could think of to say.

Haddock nodded, but his expression said _No, you can't._

And Tintin's mind filled in the rest of the words.

_No, you can't. You can't heal yourself. You can't deal with pain by yourself. You just lock it up inside and hope you never have to face it in the light of day._

And he knew that the Captain would help. He _wanted _to. He would do anything to heal Tintin.

But instead Tintin shook his head.

No, he said, I don't want to be healed. No, I want this hatred inside me. No, I want this secret and this hurt as long as possible.

"Tintin…" the Captain began, but he didn't finish and Tintin didn't respond.

And instead, Tintin walked away.

/

Morning saw Captain Haddock standing in the dining room of the Hall, a bottle of whisky hanging limply in his hand, feeling baffled and wounded.

_What did I do wrong? _he thought. _Did I hurt you?_

But Tintin wasn't there to tell him it was okay. For all the Captain knew, Tintin had gone back to Brussels. He didn't even see the boy until the evening, when it was time for dinner. And even then, they didn't talk.

_What did I do wrong? _he was screaming inside, but he couldn't say it. He couldn't spell it out to Tintin. If only Tintin could realise how sorry he was... how much he wanted to be friends...

But there was no point in hoping for that.

He knew that now.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Confession time: I happen to _adore _the sound of bagpipes (pretty sure it has to do with the fact I'm almost completely Scottish/English); like Haddock, they make my 'blood run warm inside me' and all that. :D But I'm pretty sure a lot of people don't feel this way… and I'm pretty sure Tintin wouldn't!

So, reviews? :D

**Translations:**

**1 **Come up here on the table, mate! I want to dance! (special thanks to GingerJerkyPear for catching my translation error!)


	10. I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Chapter Ten  
****_I'll Be Home For Christmas _**

_December 22__nd_

_I'm killing myself inside._

Tintin sat at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

This was going so wrong. Everything was wrong. He'd wanted to forget. He'd wanted a happy Christmas as much as anyone.

But he just couldn't make himself.

It was early morning; the sun was up, but there was still a faint golden tint to the sky that was reflected on the blanketed lawn outside his window. He glanced out, past the frosted glass, at the world outside covered in a layer of perfect, beautiful snow. There were the tracks from Haddock and Chester shooting two days ago. The snowman Tintin and Haddock had made on the 19th, after coming home from the village. Snowballs still pockmarked the snow.

_My first snowman, _Tintin thought. _My first snowball fight._ Of course, he hadn't said it to the Captain—not after the say when they'd gone sledding. Because he… well, he didn't want questions. Not again. He couldn't take it. It would just break him.

He found himself opening up his diary and flipping open to the first fresh page he found. Taking a pen from the desk near his bed, he wrote in careful script, on the left-hand corner:

_22 d'Décembre._

_I'm killing myself inside, _Tintin thought again. The thought drifted through his mind, like a message inside a bottle, floating gently, untouched, on a sea of thought and hurt and memories.

Tapping the end of the pen against his lip, he looked at the paper for a long time, as if mere staring could cause words to appear. After a moment he took a deep, quick breath, like a man about to dive underwater, and began to write.

/

"Tintin?"

Haddock knocked gently on Tintin's door, but received no reply.

"Tintin, are you there?"

He had to have been in there somewhere. Was he just ignoring the Captain?

"Tintin…lad… please let me in. Look, I—I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I… please."

No reply.

Jaw clenched, he said, very calmly and rationally, "Tintin, please. Open. Up. Or I'm going to tear this door off its hinges."

The idea presented itself that this wasn't the best way to try to make peace with him. But it wasn't an idle threat. The Captain's anger and exasperation were building up in his muscles, causing them to tense and strain against what self-control he had.

He tried the handle.

Unlocked.

Hands crossed behind his back, the Captain walked slowly through the room, glancing around, trying to see where on earth Tintin could be. He was on the verge of giving up when his gaze fell on the book on Tintin's desk.

It was open. And it had just been written in.

But no, he couldn't do that to Tintin. Could he?

_But I have to._

It didn't matter what Haddock wanted, he realised. He would find out what was wrong with Tintin if it cost them their friendship. And he would heal Tintin if it cost him his life.

It took a second for his brain to translate from French to English, but once he got going, he began to understand what he was reading.

_December 13__th__. Today I'm going to the Captain's house. My first Christmas with a family. I don't like to say it, but I'm scared…_

_December 15__th__. Acting like everything's normal for two days now. But I know inside that it's not…_

Frowning, Haddock glanced over the page, and then flipped over, his frown deepening as he struggled to understand both the words, and the boy behind them.

_December 17__th__. Can't even look the Captain in the eye anymore. Not after last night… I don't want him to hate me. But I don't like where this is going…_

His eyes flew over the words; he was reading now almost frantically.

_December 18__th__. Chester here today. I guess I shouldn't be upset; I'm not much company for the Captain, not like Chester is. And it's unfair of me to think that it's wrong for the Captain to be acting like he's back home in England. I guess it's just that… I don't know… I want him, all of him, to be __here__. With me. Oh, I don't get it… I should just stop writing now…_

_December 21__st__. I can't even describe what a wretch I feel like. I bailed out of the Captain's party, and just got mad at him… and I know he wants to help. Why won't I let him? I can't believe myself… I wish I could just die…_

"No," the Captain whispered. "No, Tintin…"

He fell back into the chair, his eyes staring vacantly at the wall for a long, long time.

Taking a deep, shivering breath, he looked down. And realised there was one more page.

It took Haddock a long time to gather up the courage to read it. But he couldn't. He couldn't just ignore it.

_December 22__nd__. I'm killing myself inside. That's what the Captain said, and I know it's true. And I can't take it any longer. I just can't—I can't do this anymore. I can't lie and pretend to… I just… I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for everything I've done… I just wish I could tell the Captain… that I'm sorry… and thank him for everything… but I… I can't. I just can't. So… Captain… goodbye._

Goodbye.

The one word hung in the air, sick and heavy. It punched Haddock in the gut, left him nauseous and gasping for air.

The Captain stared at the words—it could have been for a minute, it could have been for an hour. Time was irrelevant. He could feel his heart constricting each time he read over the one, small paragraph, as if re-reading it would prove that he'd translated it wrong.

He knew he hadn't.

Heart thudding, the Captain threw open the door and stumbled down the stairs, pausing only to locate his coat and car keys. He tried to formulate a prayer, but only two syllables came into his mind:_ God,_ and _No._

Snowy tried to get into the car, but the Captain slammed the door in his face. He didn't care. His mind was one, big, angry blue, hazy and clouded and ravaged by bewildered pain.

_No._

The garage door was open. Haddock's brain registered that the bike was gone right before he pulled out, swerving out of the driveway like a teenager in a Corvette, tires crunching over snow and kicking back gravel as the car ripped down the drive.

"Please don't be dead…" he muttered through gritted teeth. "Please… please be okay…"

Where would Tintin go? Back to Brussels?

He wouldn't try to… it wasn't possible that…

No.

White-knuckled hands clamped around the steering wheel, Haddock bit his lip and forced the thought from his mind. Tintin wouldn't try to hurt himself—not _Tintin. _He wasn't capable of that. Notthe brave, intrepid, dogged reporter who fought crime and had been through so much and always came out on top—

The boy's words from yesterday morning cut suddenly into his mind. _'Tintin' is a lie!_

He could still see him. His angry, wounded face, the words rushing out of his mouth almost feverishly. The Captain had Tintin's face mapped down to the very last freckle, but he'd never seen it look like that before.

Right then, the Captain thought, Tintin had looked capable of anything.

_Is that who you really are?_

He shuddered and kept his eyes on the road.

_Do I even know you? Or did I fall for the lie? _

He sped down the street, past ice-encrusted trees, over stone bridges. The sun cast a golden glow over the earth that was reflected on the icy snow.

_And if you're not Tintin, then where are you?_

_Where are you really?_

He broke out of the cover of trees and to the giant bridge that spanned the Moulinsart River. The entire thing was covered in ice, and the rising sun made it seem to be a river of gold. He kept his eyes open, searching for a bike, for motorbike tracks, anything, but there were none.

_Are you hiding there, beneath that mask?_

His gaze wandered to the river as he drove over the bridge. He told himself that it was just the blinding sun that was making his vision blurry.

_Beneath the headlines? Beneath the crowds and the cheering and the military bands?_

_And can I find you?_

_Or have you hidden yourself so far away that you're lost forever?_

"Don't be gone…" Haddock murmured, closing his eyes tight for just a heartbeat. "Please…Tintin…whoever you are…"

When he came beneath the shelter of trees again, he stopped the car.

Haddock sat there, for a long moment, his elbows on his knees. He ran a hand through his hair and looked up, staring out the window, breathing heavily. He put his knuckles against his mouth, closing his eyes, forcing himself to breathe easy.

It was a long time before the Captain could restart the engine and continue his search.

He had to be out there, somewhere…

_Oh no._

In the direction of the rising sun, was a thin trail of smoke, scarring the otherwise pale gold morning sky.

_Please no._

The Captain parked the car and stepped out, staring, trying to make sure that it was indeed smoke that he was seeing. A beat passed, and then he was back in the car, revving the engine and tearing down the gravel road.

It was a full five minutes before he could smell the smoke in the air, another ten before he knew he was getting close.

He was crossing a bridge over a small gully, and wondering where on earth the smoke was coming from—the smell was certainly strong here—when a thought struck him like a brick to the face.

He didn't dwell on it at all. He simply acted. Parking the car, he leapt out and began half-climbing, half-falling down the overgrown sides of the ravine. He could feel branches lashing out, clawing at his face, but he barely felt them. All he knew was the desperate need to get down.

The Captain stood at the bottom of the gully for a moment, struggling to catch his breath.

And then he couldn't breathe at all.

In front of him was a motorbike.

_The _motorbike.

Struggling to breathe—to move—the Captain staggered towards it, as quickly as his numbing body would allow him. The bike was a mess, a warped, twisted mass of smoking metal. The snow was melted all around it, and there was a faint hissing sound coming from the engine.

_Tintin._

Where was Tintin?

"Tintin!" he screamed, feeling desperation building in his voice. He paused, panting for breath, and then tried again. "Tintin! _Tintin!"_

The Captain saw the blood first.

It speckled the white snow—an uneven, red pathway to the huddled form, only a few paces ahead of him. Laying lifelessly in knee-deep, blood-splattered snow.

"Tintin…" Haddock gasped. His heart constricted. He throat felt pinhole-thin, his lungs even thinner. "Tintin, no."

Even before he reached the small, limp figure lying in the crimson snow in front of him, the tears started—started from somewhere deep inside of him, gaining strength, until quiet sobs begin racking his entire body. Falling to his knees, he knelt beside the boy in the snow, hands on either side of unmoving body. "Don't… don't die," he choked, letting his head fall, resting it against Tintin's shoulder. "I never… got to ask you…"

A breath?

Haddock slowly raised his head, staring down at him. Tintin's lips parted, slightly, and his chest just barely moved as he breathed again.

Haddock could barely breathe.

"Captain…" Tintin moaned.

"Oh, thank you God, you're okay," the Captain gasped, a hand to his chest, trying to force his pounding heart to calm. "You're okay."

Tintin's shaking hand went slowly towards Haddock's face, fingers brushing against his cheek, his coarse beard, but then fell back lifelessly to his side. He began coughing, but there was no blood, and Haddock knew the boy hadn't been seriously injured. He would be okay.

_They would be okay._

"Don't worry, Tintin…" He could barely even force the words out. He was crying even harder, now, but a shivering laugh broke through his tears. "Tintin, you idiot! Why did you go? Why on earth did you… did… I almost had a bloody heart attack…" Burying his face in his hands, he started sobbing, his chest and shoulders heaving with each shivering gulp for air. "I was so scared…"

"Captain, I... I'm sorry," Tintin murmured, slowly sitting up.

Instinctively, the Captain moved to catch him, holding him close, keeping his arms tight around him. He cradled the boy close, one arm under his knees and the other around his shoulders. "Easy now…" he said, gently.

Tintin lay there for a moment. His forehead furrowed; he stared down at the ground, and took in a deep, shuddering breath. "Oh, Captain… I'm so sorry… I was so stupid…" he began. But Haddock didn't let him finish.

"No, Tintin… it's all my fault. It's all my…" His voice shook, and he rested his head on Tintin's shoulder again, taking in a shivering breath. "And I'm sorry," he choked. "I should have…I should have been…Tintin, I'm so, so sorry, please…"

Tintin whispered, "No…don't, please…"

The Captain slowly stood, keeping Tintin cradled in his arms. "But you're safe now, Tintin," he murmured. "You're safe."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Ahhh! Hit me right in the feels just writing it! If you liked, leave a review!


	11. All I Want For Christmas

**Chapter Eleven  
_All I Want For Christmas..._  
**

_December 23__rd_

The Captain had wanted, more than anything, to take Tintin home. But something about Tintin's face as Haddock drove him back towards Moulinsart screamed _Concussion_ at the Captain. So he'd turned around and sped straight to Brussels, where he knew one of the best hospitals in the country was. Tintin had been sped to the ICU, though the Captain thought that was a bit overkill. It turned out that the boy not only had a grade 3 concussion and major lacerations all over his body, but his arm was literally snapped near the shoulder and he'd dislocated two vertebrae. If Haddock hadn't gotten Tintin to the hospital, it would have been possible that Tintin would have suffered serious nerve damage.

When he'd heard the news, Haddock had sunk slowly to a chair, staring blankly ahead of him, suddenly quite glad he'd decided to take Tintin to the hospital.

"He's lucky he didn't break his spine," the Captain had said, laughing shakily.

"He's not lucky," the doctor had replied, scoffing. "He's Tintin."

And the Captain had begun to understand what Tintin had been saying, on the morning of the 21st.

Three surgeries and twenty-five stitches later, Tintin was in his own room, deep asleep. The Captain was there, too. It was a nice room Tintin had—the managers at the hospital had long since learned that money was no object to the Captain, when it came to Tintin's comfort—and there was a big couch that the Captain could sleep on. He'd tried to stay away from drinks for Tintin's sake, in case he did anything stupid like pulling out the boy's IV, but, well, when he went for a walk and saw that cute little café, it had been a little hard to resist. Besides: he was almost completely positive that even if he was as lit up as humanly possible, he would never lift a finger against Tintin. He just wouldn't. Even his drunken brain could never send those orders to his body.

He sat, elbows on knees, rough hands twisting nervously in front of him. He kept his gaze on Tintin, watching his breaths with what would have been worry if he hadn't been watching for 3 hours now and was fairly assured that they weren't going to suddenly stop.

Tintin moved. He twisted his head a little, looking towards Haddock, and tensed his body, stretching.

His eyes drifted open.

The Captain fought every instinct to rush towards him. _Give him space. Let him breathe._

Tintin's eyes searched the room for a moment, wondering where he was; they lit up when he realised that the Captain was there.

They were happy. The Captain knew they were. But neither of them were able to speak, to display any emotion other than what their smiles showed. Instead, they sat, silent for a while, curiously shy.

"You stubborn old drunk," Tintin murmured at last, shaking his head.

"Me?" the Captain replied, pretending to sound wounded. "Me, a stubborn old drunk? Coming from the moron who crashed his bike."

"Coming from the moron who followed me into that stupid ditch."

They grinned at each other, not sure what to say, but not caring, either; they were together and safe, and that was all that mattered.

"How did you find me?" Tintin asked, at last. "You must've left only minutes after I did."

"I…" _How do I say this? _"Well, I was looking for you in the Hall…I wanted to apologise."

"There was no need," Tintin cut in quietly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Maybe," the Captain admitted, shrugging. "But I knew you'd been hurt, and I felt responsible."

"Oh, Captain…" Tintin's brow furrowed, and he closed his eyes tight, wincing as if he was in pain. For a second Haddock thought that his wounds must've flared up, but then Tintin continued— "You didn't do anything… please, don't apologise… I'm so sorry for everything I did. I… it was stupid, I'm sorry."

Feeling his heart rising to his throat, the Captain stood up and made his way to Tintin's bed, resting on the edge. He took Tintin's arm and held it tight. "Tintin, I don't care where you were going, or what you were trying to do. Okay? You can just forget about it."

Tintin smiled shakily at Haddock, but then swallowed and looked away, pain obvious in his eyes. "Forget," he repeated. "People say it like it's so easy."

"Tintin, what happened to you?" he asked quietly.

Tintin didn't say anything.

"I want to help."

"I know. It was a long time ago, Captain… I'm okay…"

"No. No you're not." He knew he wasn't being sensitive right now, but he didn't care. "You lock up your memories like that, and they'll only hurt you more. What happened to you, Tintin? What did they do?" But the boy didn't answer, and Haddock was forced to cast about for ideas of what people would possibly do to their children. "Starve you?"

Tintin shook his head.

"Call you… names?"

A hint of bitter amusement drifted through his voice. "Don't you think that I could handle that by now?"

There were only so many options left. Options that the Captain desperately didn't want to consider. "Tintin, if…" he began falteringly, "if they laid a finger on you, I swear I'll—"

But he stopped when his saw Tintin's expression. Because that expression answered his question for him.

"I—I can't forget—" Tintin began to choke, but couldn't continue.

"Tintin, I…" When he reached out and touched Tintin's arms, holding the boy at arm's length, the boy shrunk back a little, but didn't try to make Haddock let go. "It's okay. It's okay, Tintin."

Biting his lip, Tintin turned his face away, but his chest heaved with tiny, shaking sobs, and the Captain knew he was crying.

"Don't hold it in," the Captain said, quietly. "Just let it all out."

There was a moment of indecision. Only a moment. Then his mind was made up. And the Captain's arms were open when Tintin came into them.

Hiding his face in the older man's chest, Tintin began to sob. And with each shaking breath he took in, he kept attempting to force words out. "He— he wouldn't— let—let go," he choked, wrapping his arms around the Captain's torso and burying his face into the soft blue fabric of the jumper. "He said—he— he said—"

"Shh," the Captain whispered. "Shh."

"I—just want—just—forget—" he gasped, red eyes tightly shut, shaking hands tightly fisted in the man's coat.

"You don't have to forget," he murmured, feeling pain and emotion stinging at his own eyes, but holding back the tears. Being strong for Tintin. "Forget about a wound, and it'll just fester, eh?" Pulling back a little, he looked at the lad, sympathy and concern in his eyes and voice as he cupped the boy's cheek in his palm. "I don't know everything that happened," he said quietly. "But I know you're hurting yourself. Don't lock everything inside. You have to let it go."

Tintin looked at him for a long moment, tears glimmering in his eyes, and then he felt back against the Captain's chest, taking a deep, shivering breath. "I know." His whole body was shaking, but he could feel the Captain's arms around him once more, the large hands gently running down his back, and could feel his tears begin to dry.

The Captain thought it was strange that he wasn't angry. It was wrong, he knew, that whatever happened had happened, but that didn't seem to matter right now—it wasn't half as important as comforting Tintin. Holding the boy as close as he could, hushing him, rubbing his hands soothingly down his trembling back, he could feel the boy's pulse, fluttering beneath his chest. It felt fragile. Too fragile to have been the only thing keeping him alive. Could that delicate beat sustain life in the boy's body? A boy who was shot at, knocked out, gagged and bound and dropped into the sea? A boy who should, be all rights, be dead?

It couldn't. Not for long. Because luck didn't last forever.

And the Captain would swing before Tintin's luck ran out on his watch.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, focusing on the timed thump of Tintin's heart, the timid beat he could feel in his own body.

_I will be your heart for you, _he silently promised._ When bullets fly towards you, I will be there first and they will rip through me before they even touch you. When my heart stops beating, it will be to protect yours. And when your heart stops beating, it will be my last beat, too. _

"I don't know everything that happened," he repeated, "But I will never, ever do that. I'm going to protect you, Tintin. I'm going to protect you forever. Until my last breath." His voice was soft, but he enunciated each and every syllable. "Until my very – last – breath."

Tintin nodded. He was crying too hard to respond, but he smiled through his tears.

And that was enough.

A few minutes later, Tintin's tears had dried completely. He lay there, his head against the Captain's chest, his breathing finally back to a slow, steady pattern.

"Captain?" he asked, quietly.

"Yes, lad?"

"I… I want to go home…"

The words seemed to bring the Captain back to reality, and with it, gave him a strange, subtle feeling of disappointment—almost the words had woken up from a beautiful daydream.

"Oh course," he said quickly. "As soon as the doctor says you can go, I'll drive you straight there… your flat is only a couple minutes away."

"No, I…" He closed his eyes, and his head fell against the Captain's chest. "I mean, with you. Your home…"

The Captain stared at Tintin for a moment, his world slightly tilting, his heart twisting inside of him.

_With me. My home._

He couldn't believe it.

_He wants to go back to Moulinsart._

"Alright," he said, ruffling Tintin's hair and placing a soft kiss on his forehead. "Let's get you home, Tintin. Let's go home."

/

The doctor had said that Tintin had to stay for the next few days and recuperate. For once, Tintin tried reasoning with him, instead of simply pulling out his IV and walking out of the room. But it was the Captain who had finally convinced the man.

"It's _Christmas Eve _tomorrow," he had pleaded, trying to make his expression as winningly pathetic as possible. "I'll make sure he doesn't get too much excitement. He'll stay in bed, or on the couch. And I'll get a wheelchair for wherever he needs to go." To Haddock, this seemed like overkill, because he knew that there was no possible way that he was carting Tintin around in a wheelchair—it wasn't as if Tintin had broken his _leg, _blistering barnacles, and besides, Tintin wouldn't allow himself to be wheeled about like that—but it had been that proposition that had finally seemed to convince the doctor.

The Captain just barely remembered to buy a wheelchair, right before Tintin signed out and they were about to get into the parking garage. And Tintin had barely remembered to sit in it as they entered the parking garage and got into the car.

"We don't need this, right?" the Captain asked, pointing at the wheelchair as Tintin climbed into the passenger seat.

"No, but if we leave it in the parking lot, they might be unhappy."

"True," the Captain said. He opened up the back hatch, fought for two minutes to collapse the chair, and then ending up just kicking it into the back. "Right," he said, dusting off his hands and getting into the driver's seat. "Back to the Hall, then?"

"Uh…"

" '_Uh'_ what?" the Captain asked suspiciously, glancing over at Tintin as they pulled out of the garage and into the open air of Brussels. "I know that expression," he said warningly. "It means, 'I need you to drive me somewhere, Captain, where you don't want to go and where I'll probably get shot, but I'm such a nosy idiot—'"

"No, no, nothing like that. It's in Belgium, don't worry. Do you know the way to Ostend?"

"Well… yes, of course, but…"

"Great."

"Uh, right." Shrugging, the Captain consulted his internal map and began heading out the other end of Brussels. "I guess."

He scrunched up his face, trying to remember, and then slowly gave the Captain the address to an apartment complex near Ostend's somewhat diminutive Red Light District. Once they entered the seaside city, a mere thirty minutes away from Brussels, the apartment was only a fifteen minute drive from there.

The Captain loved Ostend. He loved the thick, foggy air, the heavy scent of salt, the rumbling of foghorns, the screeching of seagulls. Ostend was one of the few cities in Belgium that hadn't been obliterated in the War, so it still retained its gorgeous halls and cathedrals and towers. And there were so many ships! But, like every city, even Ostend had its slums. And he and Tintin were driving straight into them.

They rolled slowly down crooked cobblestone roads, past houses rotting and falling apart, past people sleeping on top of newspapers—or Hoover blankets, as they were called in the States. Everything here was cold, wet, and fifthly. The decaying piers were coated in a layer of thick mould; every other cobblestone was punctuated with shreds of rotting garbage, barely covered by the thin blanket of tire-polluted snow. Empty litterbins rolled arbitrarily across the streets. Traces of people's livelihoods laid scattered on the ground— a torn fishing net, a tattered newspaper, a gristly hunk of meat worried apart by dogs. Freighters rocked, moaning, back and forth over the slippery waves.

"Stop," Tintin said quickly, and Haddock applied the brakes. "This is it."

They were in front of a stone apartment building. Half the windows were missing panes. The roof was sagging. A coil of barbed wire was strung around the perimeter of the building.

"Here?" the Captain asked nervously.

"Here," Tintin replied, an almost imperceptible sigh to his voice. He pushed open the car door and hopped outside. "There's…something I need to do."

"Want me to come in, lad?"

"No thanks." His gaze searched the Captain's for a moment, and then he said, more softly, "They—he— wouldn't understand."

"Alright." The Captain didn't know what exactly he was saying was alright, but it didn't really matter. It was, after all, all right.

Tintin rapped on the front door—the sound echoed through the stone streets—and after a moment, it creaked open, and he stepped inside.

Time passed. Perhaps it was ten minutes, maybe fifteen. From what Haddock could tell, it certainly didn't sound as if Tintin's life was in danger. He heard no bullets, no screams—there were raised voices, but he didn't hear Tintin's—and for some reason, he had just gotten the feeling that this wasn't a dangerous place. Tintin hadn't looked as if he'd been planning to walk into danger. He'd looked rather as if he was going to go call on a friend.

When Tintin walked out of the front door, Haddock waved and twisted the key into the ignition.

"I think I did the right thing," Tintin murmured, closing the car door and relaxing into the leather seat.

The Captain didn't respond. He pulled away from the curb and began the drive out of the city.

"I'm sorry for being an idiot," Tintin said, more quietly.

The Captain almost responded with 'How could you be an idiot? You're Tintin!' but quickly thought better of it. Instead he just said, as casually as possible, "Ah, well, we all have our days."

Tintin cracked a smile. "Even me?"

"Oh, definitely you."

They grinned at each other, and then Tintin looked down, playing nervously with the hem of his jacket. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Er… Captain… thanks. Thank you, Captain." He looked out of the window, unable to meet Haddock's gaze.

"For what?" The Captain frowned.

Tintin cleared his throat again. "For understanding."

"Oh." He paused, swerving the car across a turn, and then looked at Tintin again. His forehead was furrowed with a slight frown, but there was a smile on his lips. "Don't think about it. Look, I'm not a very, er, motivated sort of person, but when it comes to you, sure, I do my best. And just you remember, that's all you can ever do."

"I know," said Tintin quietly, and then smiled. "Thanks for that, too."

/

"So glad to see you home and well, Master Tintin," Nestor said, smiling in his weary way. "May I say, we were all quite concerned for you."

"Thank you, Nestor," replied Tintin, and totally impromptu, reached out and gave the butler a hug. "Happy Christmas, Nestor."

"Happy… Christmas," Nestor replied dumbly, feeling dazed. He blankly stared at Tintin as the young boy tripped off, walking arm-in-arm with Master Haddock, chatting and laughing happily as they stepped through the open doors of the Hall.

And felt a smile rise to his face.

It was a happy Christmas, indeed.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Christmas Eve is tomorrow! I can't believe it!

So, if you thought this chapter was good, leave a review! That would be so awesome! :D


	12. Twelve Typewriters-a-Typing

**Chapter Twelve  
_Twelve Typewriters-a-Typing_  
**

_December 24th_

"Now you just keep your eyes closed…" the Captain told Tintin, taking his arm as they slowly made their way towards the stairs. He put his hand over Tintin's eyes for a moment, letting the boy feel his hand over his eyes before taking the first step.

"What?" Tintin sounded suspicious, but his voice betrayed a hint of amusement. "Where are we going?"

"Down the stairs, can't you tell? Watch your step."

Grinning widely, Tintin cracking open one eyelid just enough to shoot a shrewd look in the Captain's direction. "I can't watch anything right now."

Gasping in feigned shock, Haddock speedily slapped his hand back over Tintin's eyes. "Hey! No cheating!"

"Sorry!"

"Cheeky beggar. I can't trust you as far as I can throw you."

Tintin started to laugh, but stopped, hand on his back. "Ah, don't!" he gasped, wincing in pain. "It hurts to laugh."

"Oh. Sorry," the Captain said awkwardly.

"No, no, it's okay. Sorry, but I think you'll have to hold off on the throwing; I don't think that would be really good for my spine."

"I'll control myself, don't worry," he promised. "And…ah, here we are. Last step."

Still keeping his eyes shut tight, Tintin raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Can I look?"

"Okay…" said the Captain, slowly removing his hand from Tintin's eyes. "Now."

His eyes opened. And widened.

"Great snakes…"

The entire foyer was Christmas.

Garlands were draped over the front door and wove their way down the railing on the staircase. Ornaments hung from the chandelier. Golden ribbons were twisted and looped all around the doorways. The end tables were covered in holly, ivy, and pine, with candles and ornaments and pinecones. He could see a fire roaring in the parlour, and when he took a step, there was a new rug at his feet. From the kitchen, _Comfort Ye My People _from Handel's Messiah slowly drifted towards them, the familiar strains so beautifully like home. But the centrepiece was the tree. At least 15 feet tall and covered in crystal, crimson, and golden ornaments. A string of cranberries wound its way up, followed by a twisting golden ribbon.

"When did you do this?" Tintin breathed, unable to think or say anything else.

"Well, Nestor did quite a lot of it yesterday. I phoned him from the hospital."

"_All _of this?"

Haddock admitted, "Well, I did a lot of it this morning."

"But you _hate _getting up early."

"I know." He grimaced a little, but his expression quickly turned into a cocky grin. "Don't worry. It was worth it."

"Great snakes," Tintin murmured again. "Great… wow."

"'Great wow'? Haven't heard that one before."

Tintin pinned the Captain with a glare even as he laughed, "Captain! _Vous gazon peu!_"1

"Don't get too mad at me. You're stuck at my house for Christmas, whether you like it or not."

Fingering the garland next to him on the railing, Tintin turned to Haddock and smiled. "Don't worry," he said softly. "I love it."

And that, Haddock thought, was Christmas present enough.

/

Tintin stood, hands on his hips in the Hall's backyard, watching as his breath formed a cloud in the bitter December air. The trees stood tall and monumental around him, covered in snow, and from somewhere, birds were singing. "It's so gorgeous out," he breathed. "Everything so peaceful. Isn't it, Captain?"

He turned to where the Captain was, but there was nobody there.

_Oh, please._

"…Captain?"

Something white flashed in the corner of Tintin's vision. There was a split second of sheer adrenaline, and then white, powdery coldness burst all over his face. It was so unexpected that he stumbled and fell backwards, landing hard in the snow. Pain shot through his back and arm, rendering him breathless for a moment.

"Captain!" he finally gasped.

"Wha-at?" Haddock shouted back, poking his face out from behind a nearby elm tree. He was laughing so hard he looked like he was about to fall over. "Did you see that aim? _Wow! _Come on, come at me!"

"Any other time! But I'd really rather not completely snap my back! If it's not too much trouble!" He tried sitting up but winced in pain, grabbing his back, and couldn't. _Oh, great. _When he glanced over at his hand, which was stinging for some reason, he saw a drop of blood leak out from the bandages and slip out onto the snow. _Must've reopened that cut. _He was beginning to think he should have stayed in the hospital…_But no. I would rather be here any day._

"Can you get up?" the Captain was asking, walking near Tintin. He had another snowball in his hands, but dropped it into the snow as he got closer. "Need a hand?"

"No thanks… I think I'd rather sit."

"Okay," said Haddock. "We can sit too."

"Well, I don't want to ruin your fun." He paused for a moment, thinking. "Know of any fun sitting-down-in-the-snow activities?" He had been expecting the Captain to give him an exasperated/amused look and say something like _are you kidding me, _but instead, the Captain looked thoughtful.

"There's no angels," he mumbled.

Tintin blinked. "What?"

"I said 'there's snow angels.'"

"Oh. Er. How do you play that?"

"You don't—" The Captain looked as if he were about to say something about Tintin's ignorance on all things Christmas related, but instead opted for a more gracious, "It's just something fun you can do. You lie down on the snow like this…" Opening his arms spread-eagle, Haddock fell backwards into the snow, making a little pretend screaming noise as he fell.

Tintin giggled. The Captain acted like a six-year-old sometimes.

"I don't think those would be great for my back, either," he called out, grinning.

"No, no, no, then you go like _this." _He began flapping his arms up and down and moving his legs in a scissor-like way.

"You look like an injured bird."

Haddock ignored Tintin's jibe. "And then, when you're done…" He stood up again. "It's an angel."

Tintin looked at the finished result.

"Hmm," he said. "That's neat."

"You give it a try."

"Bien sûr." With the Captain's help, Tintin gingerly lay down, spreading out his legs and arms, and... "I can't do it," he moaned. "Not with my arm in a cast."

"I'll do the other wing for you." Haddock knelt beside Tintin in the snow and stretched out his arm. "Okay, ready?"

"Ready."

Thirty minutes later, the entire backyard was covered in angels. Some of them were big, with huge wings and robes. Others were small, always with one crooked wing that didn't really seem to be attached right.

"It looks like an angel graveyard," observed Haddock.

Tintin laughed. "Or like judgement day. When God throws the fallen angels out of Heaven." They surveyed their work with satisfaction for a moment, until Tintin added, "Guess what? I've never done these before."

"Hmm," said the Captain, wisely deciding against commenting on that.

"It's… kind of a long story, but you know, the reason why I wasn't so happy on the 13th…well, it was because I don't…really… like Christmas."

_That _was something the Captain couldn't keep quiet about. "You don't like Christmas?" he asked, incredulously.

"No, no! I mean, it's—it's fine. But I'm upset because I've never spent Christmas with a family before. When I was alone, I didn't have to think about it, but, you know, now—"

"Master Haddock!" Nestor called, his face appearing in the opened kitchen window. "Master Tintin! The cougnou are ready!"

"Oh! Yes! Cougnou!" Tintin exclaimed, struggling to his feet. The Captain took Tintin's arm and shoulders and helped him up. "Come on, Captain; we're going to treat you Belgian style."

/

The smell of the Christmas Eve dinner still hung in the warm, cosy air, along with the smell of pine, cinnamon, and the logs in the fireplace. It was both the Captain and Tintin's tradition to open up one present on Christmas Eve. Chester and Nestor were in the corner; Nestor was helping fasten Chester's new cufflinks, a present from Haddock. Thompson and Thomson were here; they had stopped on their way back from the hospital, and were taking careful sips of the Captain's special eggnog. Snowy was lying by the fire, a pink-ribboned bone between his teeth, making occasional soft grunting noises as he gnawed. Tintin was sitting on the hearth next to him, a cup of cocoa in his lap, stroking Snowy's head absently.

"Merry Christmas Eve," said the Captain, stepping up to Tintin, a giant box hidden behind his box.

"There you are," Tintin replied, grinning. "Where were you for the past hour?"

"Oh, you know; here and there."

"You did a whole lot of 'there' and not very much of 'here.'"

"Oh, well, yeah, Christmas secrets and what have you."

"Hmm, I see." Tintin nodded towards the present, conspicuously hidden behind the Captain's back. "I also see that you're hiding something."

"Yeah, I noticed you hadn't opened a present yet." He whipped out the box from behind his back. "So: Merry Christmas."

"Aww! Is this from you?" Tintin reached out for the box, but his movement was hampered by the cast. After a moment, the Captain decided it was too painful to watch and just put the box on Tintin's lap.

Tintin looked down at the present, but instead of opening it, toyed with the yellow ribbon, seemingly disinterested in opening the gift. He didn't exactly take the gift off his lap, but seemed to put it aside mentally. "Captain?" he asked.

"Yes, laddie?"

"Why did you go looking for me?" he asked.

The Captain looked at Tintin for a moment, going over the reasons mentally. But none presented themselves as the best one to tell Tintin, and he certainly couldn't tell the boy _all—_that would take ages—so he just said, "Aren't you going to open the present?"

"Oh." He looked down at the box, as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh, of course!" Eyes wide with anticipation, he began tearing at the paper.

"Here, let me help you with that." The Captain reached over and began working at the yellow bow, untying it and pulling it off the box. "Sorry; I wrapped it before you broke your arm."

But Tintin didn't hear.

He was staring at the inside of the box.

"Aren't you going to take it out?" the Captain finally asked, after the seconds turned into minutes and Tintin still hadn't as much as moved.

Without responding, Tintin gingerly slid the typewriter from the box into his lap.

"It's beautiful," he whispered, slowly running a finger down a shiny black side, his eyes wide with awe.

"Runs like magic, too," added Haddock. At least, the lady at the store had told him so. Haddock know nothing about typewriters. All he knew is that whenever he used them, the keys got all criss-crossed and jammed up and all the ink ended up on his hands instead of the paper. "Pretty dang nice. Try it out."

"But… but I can't… it's too…"

"Too what?" He rolled his eyes. "Your articles are world-famous, lad. This is the least you deserve."

Tintin looked like he wanted to argue with that, but wasn't about to say anything that would possibly jeopardise his owning this beautiful piece of machinery. So instead, he placed it gently on the hearth beside him and gave the Captain a hug.

"You shouldn't have," he murmured, "but thank you."

/

"See you later, mate," Haddock said, slapping Chester on the back. He kept his arm around his friend's shoulder as they made their way to the door. "Anytime you fancy a visit, come right on in. I'm always home."

"Always?" Tintin cut in, eyebrows arched.

"Except when _you're_ dragging me away to some horrible country, yes."

Tintin grinned, biting his lip. "Don't lie. You have fun on our adventures."

The Captain rolled his eyes, opening up the door for Chester. A blast of cold December wind flooded the room. "Yeah, heart attacks are a blast."

"Nah-ah-ah," said Chester, shaking a finger warningly. "Now, I want you be good boys while I'm away. No more fighting. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear," said the Captain piously.

"I'll try my best," replied Tintin, giving the Captain a Look. "Uh, so, Chester, I hope you know you're welcome to take any Loch Lomond with you…?"

Chester laughed. "Don't worry, Haddock. I wouldn't dream of it."

"Of course not."

The clock in the hall struck 11.

The three of them stood there, not really sure what to say. And then the Captain finally clapped Chester on the back once more.

"Well, mate... it was grand to see you."

"Grand to see you, too, old friend. And you, Tintin. Take care of yourself, aye? No more falling off of bridges."

"No, I won't," Tintin laughed, though there was a slight pained look to his eyes. "Happy Christmas, Captain."

"Happy Christmas, lad. Goodbye, Tintin; goodbye, Haddock. Godbless."

"Godbless, Chester."

Chester shook Haddock's hand, hoisted up his suitcase, and stepped through the door. Then the door closed, and Chester was gone.

Tintin and the Captain stood there for a long time, unsure of what to do; just staring at the door.

"So…" Tintin began carefully, "next year, we should have him over again. Chester, I mean."

"Really?" The Captain turned towards Tintin, regarding him solemnly. "You really would want that? I know you like your Belgian Christmas, and I think having Chester here kind of ruined that for you…"

"No, no…don't worry about it at all, old friend."

"You sure?"

Tintin patted Haddock's back and treated him to a winning smile. "Of course! Seriously, Captain, don't worry about it."

"Aye, I won't. Thanks for that, lad." The Captain grinned widely at Tintin and took a skipping step, whistling the tune to _Wassail, wassail, all over the town…_

And Tintin whistled right along.

* * *

**Author's Note: **AHHHH CHRISTMAS TOMORROW! Happy Christmas everybody! So, I do have one final Christmas day chapter, but since I might not get the chance to post it tomorrow, I'll do it either tonight or on the 26th. Either way, I _will _get it up. And hey, if you appreciate the effort that it will _clearly _take me (lol) why not post a **review? **You know I'd love it :) It wouldn't be quite as nice as a shiny new typewriter (which I really, really want, by the way) but would be pretty wonderful all the same.

**Translations **1 You little sod!


	13. Winter Wonderland

**Chapter Thirteen  
****_Winter Wonderland_**

_December 25__th _

The sun was pouring through Tintin's bedroom window when he awoke.

It was a soft, pale-gold light, almost tangible. It trickled through the curtains, pouring through the frost-covered glass, drenching the entire room in a soft glow. The sky was that same colour that it had been on the 22nd, the day when he had tried to run away. He leaned over and opened the window, feeling the cold wind wash away his early-morning drowsiness.

Running away. It was something he had been doing for 15 years. Running away from his family. Running away from foster homes. Running away from his orphanage. But give him thirteen days with Captain Haddock, and that was all in the past. The mask was gone.

He'd spent the past two years escaping criminals. Now, he felt as if he had saved himself from... himself.

Would he still need the mask? Maybe. But it wasn't like it had been before. Because the Captain knew who was underneath now. Now, _Tintin _was nothing more than a nickname. It wasn't something to hide beneath, to bury himself under.

For the first time, he actually felt free.

Closing his eyes, Tintin took a deep, trembling breath, and then slowly exhaled. With it, his tension and fears slipped away. He could feel them going, fading into the light that was now washing his room with a golden glow, like a bird set free, and soaring into the sunset. He felt like he could stay here forever. In this room. In this hall. In this life. In this tiny, beautiful moment. In this fragile piece of calm and rest and light. This was a dream. It had to be. How could anything this beautiful be here? How could he be feeling this, in the midst of the pain and chaos of cold, bleeding reality? This was a dream. He knew it was. And he never, ever wanted to wake up.

"Tintin?"

Tintin's heart leaped when he heard the Captain's voice, coming from right outside his door. "I'm awake," he responded, wincing with pain as he slowly sat up. "Come in."

Grinning eagerly, like a little boy on Christmas, the Captain poked his head through the door. "Get dressed and meet me out front," he whispered. He winked, and closed the door.

With one last wistful glance out the window, Tintin slid out of bed and slowly, painfully dressed himself in his plus-fours and white dress shirt. After a moment of indecision, he pushed his blue pullover aside, opting for a crimson jumper: it looked more festive and anyway, why not? After pulling his socks and shoes on, which was near impossible with his right hand bandaged and his left arm in a cast, he opened the bedroom door. He located his tan overcoat and a plaid scarf, and then stepped out of Moulinsart Hall and into the world outside.

The yard was cold, but the same golden light flooded down. It sparkled on the ice-covered snow, on the tree branches, on the Hall's stone gates. The Captain was there, in his heavy blue overcoat, naval cap on his hat and pipe between his lips. His eyes lit up when he saw Tintin approaching.

"You're here," he said, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

"Of course." Tintin shoved his hands into his pockets and took a step down the front stairs. His vision immediately swam with pain, and he swayed forward, almost losing his balance.

"Steady there." The Captain reached out and grabbed Tintin's arm. "Let me give you a hand."

"Please do." Tintin wasn't used to feeling this weak, but for whatever reason, he didn't mind it. Maybe a couple months ago, when he had been more of a loner, it would have bothered him that the Captain was having to help him down the stairs. But now, he was just glad to have someone be here to help him. And besides: it was the Captain who was helping him. How could he possibly mind that?

They made their way down the stairs, and then to the gravel drive.

"So, how's your Christmas been so far?" the Captain asked.

"Wonderful…" Tintin looked like he wanted to say more, but his voice trailed off after the one word.

The Captain waited for him to expound, but he didn't, so he just said, "Good."

Tintin didn't know where they were going, but the Captain didn't explain. They just kept on walking, and he guessed that Haddock would say where they were going when they got there. He didn't care; it was beautiful outside. The destination didn't matter; he could have walked the grounds for hours.

They trudged over the gravel driveway, and then to the withered rose garden, bare bushes covered in a generous blanket of snow. It was so quiet and still. A bird sang, from far away, and there was the distant sound of a train whistle. Besides that, all was silent.

"So, er, Tintin…what was there?" the Captain asked, quietly, when the silence had begun to stretch. "You know. Back in Ostend?"

"The apartment?" Tintin's eyes closed, and leaning against the Captain's body, he took a shivering breath. "I'd never forgiven my... family... for what happened. I had to tell my father that everything was okay now."

"And is it?" the Captain asked, quietly.

His forehead furrowed a bit, but Tintin nodded. "I've spent my entire life running away from…back then," he explained. "But I'd been running for so long, it turned into running away from you, and that was something that was never supposed to happen." His voice became quieter, and he opened his eyes, looking up almost sadly at the Captain. "Running away only hurts. Both of us. And I won't do it again. Not anymore, I promise."

"I know. But if you ever change your mind, I'm coming after you, like it or not."

Looking down at the snow-covered ground, he grinned softly. "Don't worry. I won't mind. And, Captain, thank you. I—" He was about to continue, but then closed his mouth, cocking his head, a curious look in his eyes. "Do you hear that?" he asked, after a moment. "It almost sounds like…bells. Not church bells. Smallish bells."

"Sounds like it's coming from near the field," the Captain observed.

Tintin thought for a moment, and then said, "Maybe it's gypsies?"

Haddock shook his head. "No, we don't get those around here often. Come on, let's see."

/

They walked for a good three minutes before they saw it.

The path through the Moulinsart woods was like a fairyland.

On the snow-covered branches arching over the white path, were ornaments. Pinecones dangling on silver strings. Small paper snowflakes. Simple glass balls, catching the gold light of the sun. Clumps of ivy, merrily dotted with holly berries. And, of course, the tiny, silver bells. They created a soft, musical ringing that blended into the sound of the pine tree's whispering, as the cold December breeze drifted through their heavy green boughs.

"Captain..." Tintin whispered, swallowing hard

Snow slowly fell to the ground from the branches, beneath the pale gold sky, drifting onto Tintin's upturned face, as he slowly let go of the Captain's arm and took a shaky step towards the path. His lips moved, but he couldn't seem to speak.

The Captain quietly began, "Tintin, I wanted everything to be perfect for you, and..."

But he stopped when he saw Tintin's expression. The boy wasn't crying. It wasn't that. The look in Tintin's eyes was something so powerful, Haddock didn't think he would ever be able to understand, let alone feel it. Pain? Joy? Longing? He couldn't tell. And it didn't matter.

He didn't hold Tintin close, like he had back in the hospital. But he reached out and touched the boy's arm, and once again he could feel that fragile heartbeat, letting the Captain know that he was still there, still alive. And that was enough.

"Everything _is _perfect," Tintin choked. "It's all so wonderful… I… I just can't…"

He couldn't finish his sentence, but it was okay: Haddock knew what he meant.

"Here," he said, gently taking Tintin's arm. "I can show you around."

/

The world was white.

Everything was covered in a beautiful blanket of clean, quiet snow. Save for the sounds of birds, the ringing of the bells, and the wind in the pines, it was completely silent. They walked through the thick, green pines, beneath the paper snowflakes and dangling pinecones, beneath the bare, majestic oaks.

"How long did this take?" Tintin wondered aloud.

"Ah…well, you know, Nestor helped put the ornaments together…"

"But is this where you were all that time yesterday?

Haddock nodded.

"It's so beautiful…" Tintin whispered again, taking in a deep, shivering breath. "It's gorgeous. It's like nothing I've ever seen before...and that's saying a lot."

"I thought you'd like it. Want to sit?" There was a snow-covered bench on the side of the pathway, and the Captain gestured towards it.

Tintin nodded and stepped towards it. The Captain brushed snow off the seat. Leaning on the arm of the bench, Tintin slowly sat, wincing with pain.

"Easy, now," the Captain said, taking Tintin's arm and letting the boy lean against him. "Don't strain your back. You just dislocated half your spine."

"Two vertebrae," Tintin corrected.

"Yeah, well," said the Captain dismissively—for all he knew, two vertebrae _were_ half a spine— "you could have died from it either way."

Settled himself into the seat next to Tintin, he put his arm around the back of the chair and sighed contentedly. They sat there, silent, for a long time. Tintin was still exhausted, drained—physically, mentally, and emotionally—from the past couple of days. So he was content to just sit there, his head tilted back, listening to the soft chiming of the bells, feeling snowflakes slowly drift from the pine branches, brushing against his face. And the Captain was content to just sit and rest. To be in a beautiful place… on Christmas day… with his best friend? It didn't get better than that.

Minutes slipped by, in their quiet way, hardly felt. The Captain began to think that Tintin had fallen asleep, and was just beginning to worry—after all, somebody who'd just lost litres of blood shouldn't be sleeping in the cold—when the boy suddenly laughed quietly.

"What is it?" Haddock asked, curious.

"I was thinking…remember when we were having that snowball fight? Not yesterday, I mean, the one before that…"

"Of course," he replied, chuckling in turn.

"That was fun."

"That it was."

"I wish I could…" But he didn't finish the sentence. He frowned a little and stopped speaking.

Haddock was silent for a moment, and then began, "So, Tintin… I thought that, since the old bike is kind of totalled…"

"I'm so sorry about that!" Tintin said quickly, looking up with wide eyes to meet the Captain's gaze.

"No, no," the Captain returned, waving his hand dismissively. "That old thing was a piece of crap anyway. I was thinking, you know, since you obviously have a thing for motorbikes, and I have all this money…blistering barnacles, lad, you know exactly what I'm thinking, don't you?" He grinned at Tintin's dumbfounded, barely-daring-to-hope expression. "Yes, Tintin: I'm offering you a new bike."

"For _me?" _Tintin gasped, his eyes wide with shock.

"Well, sure." He chuckled softly. "By thunder, don't stare at me like that; I feel like I must look like a freak or something. And besides, I mean, it's practically your money, considering you kind of found it and all."

"But—but I don't deserve it—"

"Yeah? And? That's what Christmas is about, isn't it?" The Captain took a long drag from his pipe, and then blew out a steady stream of smoke. "God coming down to the world for undeserving people. Dying to heal them. They didn't ask him to come, but he came anyway. Yeah, I'd say Christmas is all about people being undeserving. Not," he added affably, "that you are. Because if any fifteen-year-old deserved a motorbike, it would be you."

"Captain, I… I don't know what to say."

"You could start with 'Thank you'," he pointed out.

Tintin continued staring blankly ahead of him for a full ten seconds before his overwhelmed brain could process what the Captain had just said. "Of course!" he replied, snapping back to life. "Thank you, Captain! Great snakes! Thank—thank you!" But just as quickly, his face fell. "But… oh."

"'But oh' what?" the Captain asked, aware of something like disappointment in Tintin's voice.

"Well, it's just that…" Wetting his lips, Tintin swallowed hard, his gaze flickering down to his hands, folded in his lap. "It's just that, I don't think motorbikes are allowed in my flat."

"Oh, that's not a problem."

"Oh, yes it is." Tintin laughed grimly. "You don't know Mrs Finch."

The Captain shoved his hands into his pockets and blew out a long stream of air, watching the cloud slowly dissolve into the cold December breeze. "It doesn't have to be, you know."

"Doesn't have to be what?"

"A problem."

"What?" Tintin frowned, looking up to meet Haddock's eyes.

"Well, I was thinking…" He grinned sheepishly, gesturing back towards Moulinsart Hall. The mansard roofs were just visible through the bedecked branches of the oak trees. "I mean, this is a mighty big hall for two people, three if you include Nestor…"

Tintin stared at him for a moment. "Are you… are you asking what I think you are?"

The Captain's grin widened, and he winked cheekily at Tintin. "Depends on what you think I'm asking."

"No. Ha, no. I mean, really… you didn't just…" Tintin blinked and shook his head rapidly. If the offer of the motorbike had overwhelmed him, this had thrown him entirely off the edge. "You mean…you… me, _stay?" _He opened his mouth to continue, but his voice faltered; he took a deep breath and tried again. "What?" he choked. "You… you want me?"

The Captain stared at him a little. "Who else?"

"But… but _why?"_

"Well…" He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It's a bit of a long story…"

"Is it very simple, but at the same time rather complicated?"

"You better believe it. Well, okay, so, it started when I was in the shipping company. I was drinking in my cabin—"

"—As usual."

"As usual," he agreed. "And then, so, this little, 14-year-old Belgian kid with weird, crazy hair, just, I don't know, for whatever reason, he just _pitched _himself into my cabin."

"And your life," Tintin added, smiling a little.

"Yeah," said the Captain, scoffing, "and I couldn't get him out of either."

Tintin laughed. "_Mon bonté!_ Tenacious little dastard."

"Yeah… he is…but you know—you know, I think I liked that. There was something sort of, I don't know, so _sincere_ about it."

Tintin was still smiling, but the smile changed. It went from being an amused grin to something far more deep—more tender—and yet, at the same time, almost sad. "But then you found out that he was a lie," he said quietly.

"And then I found out that he'd been lying to himself for quite some time," the Captain corrected. His voice was even softer than Tintin's had been. "7 years," he said. "7 whole, entire years. And there was nobody there to tell him that it was okay. No father. No family. Nothing. Just him and his lie. And that was when I decided… I decided that I had to do something about that. Because, you know, I can be a tenacious little—well, big dastard, too."

"What do you mean?" Tintin asked. His voice was almost a whisper.

"Tintin..." Feeling his heart thudding, the Captain reached over and took Tintin's hand. _Just say it, Haddock. _"Tintin..." He stopped and swallowed. "I'd like to… be your father."

Tintin's eyes were wide. "What…?"

"I don't mean adoption," the Captain said quickly. "I mean, not if you don't want it. I just mean… well, you deserve to have a father, and lad, there's nobody else in the world I would rather have for a son. I care for you like you're my own flesh and blood, you know that. And—and I know I don't deserve you—not at all—but I swear to you, even if you won't have me, I will always, _always_ protect, and love, and care for you."

"I know," Tintin murmured. "But… I…"

For a long, sickening moment, the Captain thought that Tintin was going to say _no. _That he didn't want a father. And least of all Haddock.

But then he realised that Tintin's lips were trembling. A tear was slipping out from inbetween his long, blonde lashes.

"It's too much," he choked. "I don't… I don't deserve any of this. I just can't…"

The Captain was silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Then he took Tintin's other hand and said, as softly as he could, "I want you, Tintin. The one I've been through life and death with." Time seemed to slow as he reached up to Tintin's face and rested the back of his hand against the boy's cheek. "_You," _he repeated.

"My…my father," Tintin whispered, and suddenly broke into small, heaving sobs. The Captain wasn't sure how to react, but Tintin acted instead, burying his face into Haddock's chest and clutching his collar. But the crying didn't stop.

"Shh," the Captain hushed, stroking his hair, wrapping his arms gently around him. "It's okay. It's okay… don't worry, it'll be a grand old time."

"It will?" Tintin gasped. But the question seemed to have been rhetorical, because it didn't really matter.

He had a father.

And to Tintin, that was all that could possibly ever, ever matter.

Eventually, his tears subsided, and Tintin pulled back a little—not enough to lose his hold on the Captain, but enough so that he could see the Hall. He gazed at the Hall for a long moment, joy mounting in his clear grey eyes. It slowly built up, growing stronger and stronger, until his entire face seemed to shine.

"Everything's perfect," he said, softly.

Laughing softly, the Captain reached out and rumpled Tintin's hair, and then pulled him closer for another hug.

"Blistering barnacles, lad," he said, over Tintin's shoulder, "you know exactly what I'm thinking, don't you?"

"I like to think so," Tintin responded happily, laying his head more comfortably against the Captain's chest.

The Captain smiled, but didn't say anything. There was no more room for words.

Warm, safe, and content, they looked at the Hall together. And for the first time, it seemed less like a Hall and more like a home. And not only a home. Here, with the golden sun raining down, the falling snow around them, and having his father right here beside him, Tintin couldn't imagine any place more beautiful.

Sighing happily, Tintin wrapped his arms tighter around the Captain, and smiled, letting his eyes drift close.

"Merry Christmas, Captain," he said softly.

"Merry Christmas, lad," the Captain replied.

**The End**

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"The only way love can last a lifetime is if it's unconditional. The truth is this: love is not determined by the one being loved, but rather by the one choosing to love." ―Stephen Kendrick

* * *

**Author's Note: **And Merry Christmas to everybody reading this, too. :)

What an amazing journey through the 12 (well, 13—oops!) days of Christmas! I hope you've loved this story as much as I have… because then you would have adored it. :) Hey, you know what an awesome Christmas present for me would be? A review!** Leave a review, and I'll give you one, too. Christmas presents all around!** And besides, if you've read this story and haven't reviewed yet, you have to admit, that's not very nice. :3 But don't worry- I love you anyway! :)

So, before I go and eat Christmas breakfast (Belgian waffles! Yes!), once again, **_Merry Christmas!_** And have an an awesome New Year!


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